Infected
by Aurelia Faiza
Summary: 'Tell me, Nanahara, about these "feelings" of which you speak.' - There's no such thing as love - and even if there is, keep it the hell away from Kazuo Kiriyama. And as far as Shuya is concerned, the L word has no right to take precedence over his dreams. No, love is nothing but trouble. That doesn't mean it can't feel nice though. (Now edited and complete. You're welcome.)
1. Prologue: A Spot of Bother

Shuya gnawed the inside of his mouth and scowled at the questions before him as though it would make a difference. For the second time in as many minutes, the fingers on his left hand began to stray, fretting and plucking the strings of an invisible guitar that he regretted was not in his grasp.

Lessons often took a diversion along lines such as this. In that moment, Shuya Nanahara was not stuck in class; he was on stage in Central Park, the headlining act for New Year, and he's crooning into a microphone and strumming his Gibson and he throws a wink out to all the fans screaming his name as he sings his way through all his hits, and at the end of his set, just before the countdown, he ends with the cover that made him famous, and there are girls singing along through their tears, tears of joy at seeing their hero live in New York, and he leads them through the verses and builds the crowd up to a hysterical crescendo for the last chorus, and the atmosphere is heavy, it's exciting, it's tangible and Shuya takes a moment to close his eyes, stop playing, stop singing - a slow smile spreads across his lips at the sound of thousands of fans singing the very words that began his lifelong affair with the beautiful, faithful woman called Music:

_...but 'til then, tramps like us, baby we were born to-_

'Nanahara Shuya! Am I boring you?'

Mr Hayashida's light voice interrupted him mid-rock. Shuya jolted out of his daydream and back into reality with sinking, bitter disappointment.

"Dragonfly" Hayashida let Shuya make a charming, witty comment about how lessons with Mr Hayashida were the highlight of his otherwise flat, dull existence; he let the wave of sniggers die down; he let the side of his mouth quirk with exasperated amusement; and he assigned Shuya cleaning duty at lunch break.

Shuya's winning smile dropped. He grabbed at his chest, clutching his shirt with a truly pained expression on his slim, attractive face.

'You break my heart, Sir,' he sighed dramatically, eliciting another wave of titters. To his immediate right, Yoshitoki buried his face in the crook of his elbow, his body wracked with peals of laughter. After Mr Hayashida asked him politely if he would like to join Shuya in his lunchtime cleaning excursions, he piped down, shooting his friend an apologetic smirk out of the corner of his eye.

From the other side of the classroom, Kazuo Kiryama watched with indifference at Shuya's failed attempt to charm his way out of trouble. Though - he thought, with an unimpressed snort - it made sense that the only kind of trouble in which the perfect, pretty, ladies' man Shuya Nanahara could find himself was the kind where the repercussions were nothing worse than a sacrificed lunchtime. The corners of Kazyo's lips tightened briefly in an approximation of a wince as he remembered the kind of trouble in which he and his - ah - _family_ would be were it not for his initiative and unscrupulous connections.

He shook away the thoughts with a final, sweeping glance over the humbled, faintly-blushing Shuya, and the two men returned to their work.

* * *

Well hello there. Welcome to my ship. The ship to outship all other ships, in my humble opinion. Get ready for a bit of the buttsex. (Eventually.)


	2. Chapter 1: Shogo

Shuya figured that, while detention was always a pain in the ass, he may as well make it worth his while. He took the opportunity, while he cleaned, to lose himself again in his Central Park daydream. It was a favourite of his, and never failed to lift his spirits to a level even higher than that at which they always were.

Humming cheerfully, he leaned across the last desk and rubbed it with a damp cloth. The telltale strands of tobacco scattered around the surface gave it away as belonging to Sho Tsukioka, and Shuya tutted as he swept the residue into his hand, dumping it into the waste bin.

'Moron,' he said aloud, to the empty room. He caught his own reflection in a grubby mirror by the teacher's desk, and took a moment to wipe the worst of the grime from it. His reflection instantly became clearer, and he blew upwards at his mussed fringe to shift it back into place.

Out of the window, a uniform-coloured mass caught his eye. He looked out to the courtyard to find Kiriyama's gang loitering nearby and, upon closer inspection, Sho Tsukioka himself with a roll-up hanging out the side of his mouth.

Shuya scoffed. 'Moron,' he said again. 'Doesn't he know that it's an expellable offence to get caught smoking on school grounds?'

'I should imagine he doesn't give much of a shit.'

The gruff, male voice from behind him surprised Shuya into dropping the cloth with a glottal noise of general bewilderment. He turned, and saw Shogo Kawada leaning against the doorway, a lit roll-up hanging out the side of his own mouth. Though he wasn't aware of it, Shuya must have looked disapproving, for Kawada's lips abruptly twitched into a sardonic grin and he laughed, a deep, gravelly "hur hur hur", as he slouched further into the room and kicked the door shut behind him.

'Don't look at me like that, Nanahara. I could have your eyes, y'know.'

Shuya snorted. 'I hardly believe dumb rumours, Kawada.'

Word had been flitting around the school that the new kid with bullet-wounds and a bandana had acquired his various injuries in a fight down a backalley in Kobe with a Yakuza lieutenant. Rumour had it that Kawada had only come out of it alive by gouging both of the lieutenant's eyes.

Shogo "hur hur hur"ed again. 'There's a glimmer of truth in all rumours, Nanahara.'

'Like you took both his eyes.'

'Not both,' he admitted ominously,

'Not both,' repeated Shuya neutrally. 'Right.' He bent and picked the cloth up from off the floor, sweeping Mr Hayashida's desk once more for good measure and wishing that Kawada would leave him to his domesticity.

Shogo exhaled noisily, expelling a vast lungful of smoke into the air, and Shuya delicately cracked open the window. Shogo rolled his eyes at Shuya's wordless protestations, but respectfully stubbed out his cigarette on the surface of Toshinori Oda's desk.

'I just cleaned that,' Shuya complained.

Shogo shrugged. 'You didn't do a very good job. Look, some asshole's gone and left a smoke on it.'

Shuya briefly considered politely asking him to piss off, but it crossed his mind that he valued both his eyes equally and he decided against it - though barely a second after having reached his mature decision, he wondered if he was going to be needing new eyes anyway.

Shogo shrugged his jacket off of his shoulders and arms before chucking it across the room to land on his own desk by the window. He tugged his shirt off over his head and dropped it onto Toshinori Oda's desk, next to the still-smoking cigarette butt.

Shuya watched, utterly bemused, as he rummaged through his sports bag and pulled out a pair of slacks before standing straight and unzipping his jeans.

'Um,' said Shuya intelligently, 'what're you doing?'

'Getting changed. Going to the gym.'

'Huh.'

Shogo didn't reply. Instead he kicked off his trainers and took his jeans off, leaning against Toshinora Oda's already-desecrated desk to balance himself.

'Changing rooms not good enough?' Shuya asked mildly.

'Full of bastards,' he replied without looking up.

'What ones?'

'The ones that take your shit when your back is turned.'

'I'd have thought you could take care of yourself, Kawada.'

He snorted. 'I've only just got here, Nanahara. It's not worth getting kicked out. Did your Pa never tell you to pick your battles?'

Shuya blinked. 'My Pa is dead.'

'So's mine, but he had the decency to leave me with some words of wisdom.'

'Mine died when I was a baby.'

Shogo paused, possibly catching up with his own insensitivity.

'Sorry,' he said eventually, the word sounding strange coming out of his mouth, as though he didn't often practice its use. Shuya waved it off, increasingly distracted by the torso floating around his peripheral.

'Just put on some damn clothes, you ass.'

'Thinking of my ass, Nanahara?'

'Jeez, Kawada!'

'Jeez, Nanahara, don't get your panties in a twist. I'm fucking with you.' Shogo pulled on his slacks, picked up a vest and wandered over to join Shuya peering out the window. 'What'cha looking at?'

Shuya shrugged. 'People.'

'What people?'

'No one in particular.'

'Tell me about them.'

'Tell you about who?'

'People.'

'What people?'

Shogo pointed. 'Start with them.'

Shuya followed his gaze. 'That's Kaori Minami and Mizuho Inada.'

'What're they like?'

Shuya turned to face him, meeting his eyes after a brief glance at his exposed chest. 'Why do you want to know?'

'I'm new,' he shrugged. 'I'm new and I don't know anyone.'

'You don't not know _any_one, Kawada.'

'You'd be surprised.'

Shuya opened his mouth to ask what he meant, but Shogo interrupted to bring him back to task.

'Kaori Minami and Mizuho Inada,' he prompted.

Shuya scratched his head. 'They're nice,' he shrugged.

Shogo rolled his eyes. 'That's really fucking helpful, Nanahara.'

He sighed. 'Kaori likes Junya. You know, the singer? I really don't know much about her, apart from that. She keeps to herself.'

Shogo nodded. 'And the other one?'

'Mizuho Inada?'

'Yeah.'

He visibly struggled with finding the right words. 'She's... imaginative.'

'Crazy?' Shogo suggested.

'_Imaginative_,' he repeated forcefully. 'Her writing is incredible. She read something she'd done in composition to the class sometime last year, and it was about this warrior princess who goes around saving people's lives and enlightening them to the existence of this god, and the teacher was talking about how it was an amazing piece of religious allegory, and it was just... good.'

He finished lamely, aware that Kawada probably couldn't give less of a shit even if he tried really, really hard.

'Hmm,' said Kawada noncommittally. He turned from Kaori and Mizuho, and nodded at the gang not far from the other side of the window. 'What about them?' he asked, lowering his voice.

Shuya pulled the window shut before he answered. 'That's Kiriyama's gang,' he said.

'They're calling themselves a gang?'

'I think they actually call themselves a _family_, but don't hold me to that. It's not like I discuss it with them.'

Shuya saw Shogo's smirk even out of the corner of his eye. 'Are you _afraid _of them, Nanahara?'

He paused. 'I'm wary of Mitsuru Numai.'

'Which one's he?'

Shuya pointed to the enormous, hulking boy who was, at that moment, catcalling a pair of bypassing girls. 'He's not the nicest guy.'

Shogo glanced at Shuya out of the corner of his eye, and tried to find a hint of sarcasm in his expression; he frowned upon finding none, and decided to test him further.

'All right, then,' he said decisively, 'Kazuo Kiriyama.'

Shuya blinked once and turned to watch the man in question. If he'd had to take a shot in the dark, he would have guessed that Kazuo was bored. To Shuya, he gave that impression almost all the time. 'What about him?'

'I've heard people talking.'

'People talk about a lot of things.'

'Is it true that he popped out a gym teacher's eyeball?'

Shuya winced at the memory. 'Yeah. I was there.'

'Damn.' Shogo shook his head. 'Looks like I've got competition. There ain't enough room in this class for the both of us eye-yankers.'

Shuya turned to him, wide-eyed and disconcerted. 'What?'

Shogo sighed. 'It's a joke, Nanahara.'

He seemed to realise only then that he was still holding onto his vest. He pulled it quickly over his head and turned to wish Shuya all the best with his cleaning when, to his mild surprise, he started to talk again.

'Kiriyama's a strange one,' said Shuya vaguely. 'Decent guy, though,' he added hastily.

Shogo snorted. 'Is there _any_one you dislike?'

Shuya turned to him, wounded.

'Enough of the puppy-dog eyes, Nanahara, they're breaking my heart.' He wiped away an imaginary tear to make clear his point. 'I heard that you were an optimist.'

Shuya frowned. It was true, as Shinji often snidely reminded him, that he _was _inclined to see the best in people - but, as he would often argue, wasn't that better than to assume that the world was against you?

Shogo laughed when Shuya said this.

'You're sweet,' he said, once his "hur hur hur"ing had died down, 'but that kind of attitude is going to get you hurt, kid.'

Shuya's mouth twitched with annoyance. 'Don't call me "kid",' he muttered. 'I'm the same age as you.'

Shogo clapped him on the back harder than strictly necessary. 'Just tryna figure out your trick. Maybe I wanna be all rosy as well.'

'Ass.'

'Still harping on about my ass? Jeez, Shuya, you're meant to take a guy out on at least one date before-'

'Piss off,' Shuya barked, throwing caution to the wind and putting his eyes at risk as he turned to face Shogo, frowning his best angry face.

To his surprise (and relief), Shogo chuckled. 'Sorry,' he said, again, with sincerity. 'Just messing with you.'

The back of Shuya's neck began to prickle. He rubbed it agitatedly, looking out of the window to avoid having to meet Shogo's gaze.

'I know,' he muttered, fixating his stare on Kazuo Kiriyama - surrounded, as always, by his 'family': Mitsuru Numai, with his intimidating muscles and dimwitted sense of right and wrong; Ryuhei Sasagawa, with his long, bleached hair and pointed, ratty face; Hiroshi Kuronaga, short and squat and bespectacled; and Sho Tsukioka, on his second roll-up. As Shuya watched, Sho threw back his head and laughed at some comment Mitsuru made, before leaning into the large boy's personal space and, saying something Shuya couldn't hear, lifted a finger to bop Mitsuru on the nose.

Mitsuru pushed him away roughly, turning a dark, beet red as the others laughed at his expense.

Shuya sighed, turning his attention specifically to Kiriyama once more. For a reason he couldn't have explained, had he been asked, it unnerved him that, while his cronies fell about laughing, he was still bored.

'I wonder if I'd bore him,' he thought aloud.

Shogo stared. 'Who?'

'Huh - oh.' He'd forgotten about Shogo. 'No one. Nothing.'

'Doesn't sound like nothing.'

'Don't you have a gym to get to?'

Shogo laughed shortly.

'I know when I'm not wanted.' He gave a mock-salute in Shuya's direction before turning and, gathering his bag on the way, sweeping out of the room with surprising grace for a man of his gait. He called over his shoulder as he reached the door, 'Later, sweetpea.'

'Ass.'

'Stop staring.'

* * *

Hello again. I should probably renounce all claim to ownership of BR.  
Here goes.  
I HEREBY RENOUNCE ALL CLAIM TO OWNERSHIP OF BATTLE ROYALE.  
And there you have it.


	3. Chapter 2: Hook, Line

Kazuo Kiriyama clenched and unclenched his fists. It was as much as he would allow himself by way of expressing how very, very cold he was. Shivering was an irrefutable sign of weakness.

He walked quickly, feet crunching in the frozen dew, and he took a moment to gaze dispassionately at the world around him. He supposed it was pretty; he didn't really know.

It was white, he observed. Very white. Winter had arrived with vengeance, punishing Asia for its sweltering summer by submitting it to bitter frosts and cruel, icy winds. Kazuo would have guessed that global climate change had intensified the activity of Arctic winds, causing the polar air to traverse south across Eurasia. But that was just a guess.

He arrived at school when the sun was beginning to rise, casting a ghostly, ethereal glow across the white world that, at this time of day, was his alone to inhabit. He spared a glance for the sports field, shimmering quietly in the low light, before disregarding it altogether.

If anyone was to ask him - though he knew they never would - he would not have been able to say exactly why he was in school at a time most of his classmates would still be sleeping. It did occur to him, however, as his footsteps echoed around the empty halls, that he appreciated the silence. He always had appreciated silence; silence and space, and at school in the early hours of the morning, he could receive them in abundance. No one could say that Kazuo Kiriyama didn't appreciate the small things.

That was something he'd come to acknowledge as one of the many differences between "himself" and "everyone else"; he didn't _enjoy. _He _appreciated._

As he reached the music room, it crossed his mind that he wasn't sure of the emotional difference between enjoyment and appreciation, but - he remembered with a humourless laugh - any kind of emotion had a marvellous habit of passing right over his head. And had done for as long as he could remember.

He pushed the thought from his mind. It didn't do any good to dwell on that which could never be changed. If Kazuo Kiriyama knew nothing else, he knew that. Realising, on his prepubescent journey of self-discovery, that he could not be like the people he called friends had filled the young boy with a lonely kind of emptiness even greater than that with which he was already filled.

Kazuo flexed his fingers over the binary keys of the school's piano, and emptied his orderly mind as he relaxed into a lilting, minor concerto. (He had composed it the day after he turned eight; his father had offered the young Kiriyama lessons to accompany the lavish, ornate grand piano that he had received for his birthday. Needless to say, the lessons were not necessary.)

While he did not have it in him to _lose himself _in the music as such, he was sometimes able to find that, at times when he was not surrounded, he could sink. That was the only way he knew how to describe it. To sink was to be consumed - ironically, to be surrounded. He would never have described the sensation as anything as romantic as "soft" or "warm", but it was all-encompassing, and made him feel a little less distant than usual.

As he sank, he allowed the baser, superficial part of his mind to turn to his 'family'. (Thinking about them almost caused him to make a mistake. But only almost.)

Because he was comfortable and assured in his sinking, he could be honest. And because he was alone, it transpired that there was no one to witness his honesty.

'Intolerable fools,' he murmured, barely audible over the uninterrupted tinkling of the piano he manipulated with the ease of a professional. He pressed the keys harder as he approached a crescendo, and lingered on an unresolved chord as he bowed his head and closed his eyes, picturing for a moment the faces of those to whom he was a vessel into which any misguided sense of loyalty could be poured.

They bored him. He had encountered many like them: desperate to please, and even more desperate for kudos. They would be nothing more than school bullies without him. His elevating them to the level of feared street-gang was charity on his part. That and, it was easier to get by with others to do the grunt work.

Getting his hands dirty was tedious. That was what his _family _were for.

Figuring that there was no need to be exasperated while they weren't even there, he cleared his followers from his mind with immense ease, and reabsorbed himself in the piano that he negotiated as though it were an extension of himself.

Watching guiltily through a crack in the door, Shuya Nanahara hesitated to make his presence known.

It would seem that he and Kiriyama had had the same idea. School in the early morning was a better place to practice than in the orphanage, which was always noisy and bustling and crowded as thirty children and adolescents got ready for the day. It wasn't unusual for Shuya to arrive early, to get in some practice before school began; it _was _unusual for him to bump into someone else, and of anyone he would ever have thought likely to arrive _before _him, Kiriyama was so unexpected that the idea had never crossed his mind. He didn't even know he played an instrument. He'd assumed that Kiriyama was above all that.

Shuya chided himself for his childishness and listened closely. He didn't know much about playing the piano, but he knew from previous lunch breaks spent messing around with Hiroki on a keyboard, attempting to play a basic two-part melody, that to play well was far more difficult than those who could play well made it appear.

He rested his forehead against the cool wood of the doorframe and closed his eyes, impressed by what he was hearing, and overcome with the sudden urge to accompany Kazuo's playing with some strings. Maybe a bit of subtle violin.

Shuya blinked. 'I don't play the violin,' he muttered stupidly.

The piano abruptly stopped. Shuya whipped his head back around the door as Kazuo turned, eyes narrowed, to identify the noise he'd heard, and Shuya breathed rapidly, feeling hugely idiotic for not going and greeting his classmate. It wasn't as if he'd done anything wrong.

The silence that followed was stifling and uncomfortable and utterly, utterly ridiculous. Shuya's itching desire to step in the room and announce himself increased with every stifling, uncomfortable, ridiculous second that passed, and yet he refrained. When he became paranoid that Kazuo would hear his breathing, and covered his mouth with his hand, a small part of him was horribly aware of how silly he was being, but he kept his mouth covered all the same.

He wasn't sure how long it was before he heard the piano again. He lowered his hand, exhaling slowly, and he hesitantly edged back to peep through the crack in the door.

Kazuo was hunched. His playing had lost a little of its magic. Shuya felt guilty at being the cause of his distraction, but before he could progress to anything resembling genuine remorse, he was drawn to the back of Kazuo's neck, startlingly pale in contrast to his dark hair, and slim, graceful. It matched his playing.

Shuya's eyes roved downwards, to the narrow expanse of his back. Even through his gakuran, the ridged curve of his vertebrae was clearly visible, and Shuya had an abrupt mental image of running his finger down Kazuo's spine, and of Kazuo shivering under Shuya's touch-

Shuya blinked twice, and roughly shook the thought from his mind. He was only thinking of Kazuo's neck because it just so happened that it was usually covered by his hair. He'd just never seen it before.

He exhaled quietly, turned away and headed for homeroom. He needed to get to bed earlier, he said to himself. Zoning out at the sight of a piece of skin would be no good when he was famous. Having semi-naked women throwing themselves at him every day was going to be an enormous hassle if he couldn't get his ogling under control.

As he sat on a desk in homeroom, tuning his guitar and waiting for his friends to appear, Shuya made a vow to never confess what he'd seen and thought. Even if he was being irrational, he would not say anything. Not to anyone.

Least of all to Kazuo Kiriyama.

He busied himself greeting his friends as they trickled into the room, puffy-eyed and complaining about early starts and the heinous torture of first period gym class.

'Line up, ladies!'

Twenty-one ninth graders shivered in the gym hall as Mr Ina (radiating heat in a thick tracksuit, having given Yutaka Seto a detention not a minute previously for complaining about the cold) pointed to the equipment cupboard and ordered them to fetch a pair of boxing gloves each.

Shuya pulled out a pair of ratty-looking mitts and shoved them onto his hands before they could get any colder. He thought wistfully of the girls doing pilates in the (centrally heated) next room, and resented sexism with ardent fervour. He resented it for existing, and he resented it also for, just occasionally, working both ways.

As the teacher assigned them into pairs to spar, Shuya caught the eye of Kazuo Kiriyama, and looked away quickly. True to his word, he had not told anyone that he'd heard him playing earlier in the morning, and yet it seemed to him that he was spending an inordinate amount of time thinking about it. Especially when considering how little it mattered. He overheard people playing instruments all the time, and it was disconcerting, how the melancholy, pensieve tune was on repeat in his mind, and how the accompanying image of Kiriyama's back was flickering in his mind, never quite leaving. He shook his head roughly and began to warm up, eager to be distracted.

The teacher reached Shuya, and looked him up and down before pairing him with Tadakatsu Hatagami. Shuya smiled warmly, but Tadakatsu avoided Shuya's gaze, greeting him instead with a short nod.

Shuya's smile faded. He guessed that Tadakatsu's mother must still be sore about Shuya's affiliation with rock.

As they began to spar, it transpired very quickly that Tadakatsu would have preferred to be caught down a dark alley with an axe-weilding lunatic than to engage in pretend-fighting with Shuya Nanahara. They circled each other awkwardly, Tadakatsu refusing to even look at his opponent, and Shuya was reluctant to try and land a blow on someone whom he clearly made so uncomfortable. It made him sad, to remember that he and Tadakatsu were friends in the seventh grade, but the pang of nostalgia didn't prevent the relief he felt once the three minutes were up, and they could both move to a new partner.

Shuya stretched, tilting his head sharply from side to side, and he groaned at the satisfying cracks that eminated from his neck. As he waited to be paired with someone else, he watched Shinji fight with Yutaka, and sniggered as Yutaka threw a badly-aimed punch that flew past Shinji's chest, causing Yutaka to stumble and trip.

Shinji laughed heartily, and offered a hand to his red-faced friend. He took a step back and opened his arms wide, leaving himself completely unguarded.

'Come on, little man,' he said. 'I'm offering myself on a plate, here.'

Yutaka panted, bent double and supporting himself on his knees. 'Just... Just give me a-' he coughed '-minute...'

Shinji turned to grin at Shuya and mouthed _You're next. _Shuya winked, glad to know that his next opponent would be someone not made uncomfortable in his mere presence as Mr Ina came and threatened Yutaka with double detention if he didn't get his act together.

'And you!' he barked at Shuya, 'Stop laughing!'

He got his giggles under control and apologised with as much sincerity as he could muster, and then watched as Yutaka furrowed his brow, pulled back his small fist, and landed a mediocre punch on Shinji's body.

Shinji collapsed to the hard floor, clutching his stomach and groaning loudly. 'You've killed me, Yutaka!' he cried dramatically. 'My stomach - oh God, you punched a hole in me, oh dear Lord, I'm dying, I can feel the life slipping out of me, I-'

'Cut that out!' roared Mr Ina. 'Both of you can see me after class!'

'I know that we _can, _Sir,' Shinji remarked as he rose from the ground, 'but _may _we?'

'Enough of the lip,' he growled. He pointed at Shuya. 'Nanahara, versus Mimura. Try and lose by double knockout. Pair of smartasses,' he muttered, turning to check the Sugimura vs. Kiriyama match.

To his alarm, it was rapidly turning into a less-than friendly spar. Despite being a martial arts practitioner, Hiroki had adapted his speed, strength and agility to benefit him in this new combat sport, and had he been against anyone else, he would have emerged victorious in under a minute.

As it was, he was against Kazuo Kiriyama, who - while not a practitioner in the way that Hiroki was - happened to be simply brilliant.

Yoshitoki Kuninobu stood devoutly as Hiroki Sugimura's sole supporter, cheering and yelling as loudly as he could by himself, while Kiriyama's entire gang howled for Hiroki's blood.

Hiroki's entire body ached and he panted furiously, frustrated by his situation and frustrated with himself. He blinkered himself to focus entirely on his opponent, ignoring Yoshitoki and Kiriyama's gang and the teacher shouting for them to both yield, and his frustration rose several notches at the sight of how utterly unexhausted Kiriyama seemed to be.

Kazuo watched Sugimura steadily, his stance immaculate, and absentmindedly wished that his friends would be silent. If they wanted to be supportive, he would have preferred them to watch quietly from a reasonable distance; it irked him that they were inching forwards, breaching their imaginary arena and putting themselves at risk with their own enthusiasm.

Moving with enough speed for Kazuo to be impressed, Sugimura darted towards him and aimed a hard punch at his head. Kazuo ducked, the glove just brushing the tips of his hair, and immediately attempted an uppercut; Hiroki swerved out of the way and, momentarily forgetting the rules of boxing, had to work hard to refrain from kicking Kiriyama behind the knees, which would have forced him to the floor and given Hiroki an advantage. Gritting his teeth at the clumsiness of boxing as a method of self-defence, he returned to his stance, watching Kiriyama through narrowed eyes as he lunged forward to begin his onslaught.

(Hiroki wouldn't find out until later, but from the adjoining room, Takako Chigusa had abandoned the girls' pilates lesson in favour of watching him fight. Her nose was pressed up against the window and she watched, wide-eyed, as he tried to land blow after blow on the evasive Kiriyama boy. When Kiriyama suddenly abandoned the defensive and took up the offensive, surprising Hiroki with a hard jab to the ribs, Takako swore in a very un-ladylike manner and earned herself five laps around the icy sports field.)

By then, all other spars had stopped in favour of spectating the increasing violence with which Kazuo Kiriyama and Hiroki Sugimura fought. Shuya pushed and jostled his way to the front and watched, horrified, as Kazuo struck Hiroki on the side of the head.

Hiroki fell. Hard.

'Stay down!' Shuya tried to shout, only to be drowned out by the deafening countdown which - he noted, with disgust - was led by Mr Ina, who had long since stopped trying to get them to back down and had apparently decided to enter wholeheartedly into the spirit of things.

He looked around worriedly and caught Shinji's eye. He, too, appeared about as worried as it was possible for him to appear, and with nothing more than a shared nod, they elbowed their way to Hiroki and, grabbing an arm each, hauled him to his feet.

'Show's over, folks,' Shinji called above the disappointed hollers of their classmates. 'Back to your changing rooms.'

_'I'll _give the orders,' snarled Mr Ina.

Shuya flared up. 'If you hadn't-!'

Shinji clapped a hand over Shuya's mouth. 'Shut up,' he hissed. 'There are better ways to die than at the hands of your gym teacher.'

Hiroki's eyes shifted in and out of focus, and he wobbled dangerously. Shinji caught him before he fell, and turned to look at the teacher expectantly.

Mr Ina was really beginning to resent the Mimura boy's insolence. 'What's that look for?' he grunted.

'I await your orders, sir.'

'Orders?'

'Well, if I was to use my initiative, I would be inclined to take _him_,' he nodded at Hiroki, mumbling nonsensically, 'to the nurse, but you appear to have moral objections to common sense. Sir,' he added, smiling sweetly.

Mr Ina looked torn between ripping Shinji's head off of his shoulders, and ripping his own head off of his own shoulders. With a final glower at the smartass with the nerve to question his authority, he waved him out of the hall.

'Go.'

Shuya went to walk with them, but a beefy hand clapped his shoulder, jerking him back before he could take two steps.

'Not you, Nanahara. You're next.'

Shuya's heart dropped to his feet. 'Huh?'

'Nanahara versus Kiriyama!'

The uproar was instantaneous, and terrifyingly in favour of Shuya, not great at fighting even when he wanted to, to fight Kazuo Kiriyama, who - to Shuya's amazement - still looked bored.

Shuya's breathing quickened as his classmates, confident in his chances of beating Kiriyama, formed a tight, inescapable circle around the two of them.

'Go Shuya!' shouted the majority.

'Go Boss!' shouted the rest.

'Oh, God,' said Shuya, panicking. He forced his breathing to slow and thought to himself, what would Shinji do? (More than once, he'd joked about getting that put on a bracelet.)

He pulled his lips back into an approximation of his charismatic grin, and raised both his hands until the shouting quietened to silence. He turned to Mr Ina.

'I strongly feel that this match should not go ahead, sir.'

He snorted. 'Enlighten me.'

Shuya took a deep breath. 'Kiriyama's just fought. He's probably tired. It wouldn't be a fair fight.'

Mr Ina opened his mouth to speak but he was interrupted by a cold, high voice to match the person to whom it belonged:

'Fair or otherwise, it is not for you to decide whether or not I am too _tired _to participate, Nanahara.'

Shuya had been trying to avoid meeting the eyes of his opponent, but he was forced to look up and, to his embarrassment, his vision from earlier - the finger-spine-shiver one - returned with a vengeance and increased detail.

At that moment, Shuya wasn't in gym class; nor was he the New Year's act at Central Park. He was in an unfamiliar bedroom and he lay above another person, and they had their back to him, and he lowered his lips to kiss between their shoulder blades, where the ridges of their spine were most visible, and upon touching the soft skin they shivered-

Kazuo's eyes narrowed. Nanahara had insulted him and then proceeded to turn vacant, staring at him with an utterly gormless expression on his annoying face.

Because he had nothing better to do than to grant the wish of his "family", who were always satisfied when he made a demonstration of his own power, Kazuo darted towards Shuya and punched him in the stomach.

Shuya was jolted from his fantasy by a hard blow to his gut, followed by a sharp pain in his ass. He blinked and returned to reality, finding himself on the floor and looking up at the faces of his disappointed friends, but he disregarded them all in favour of the unreadable expression of Kazuo Kiriyama.

The silence was palpable.

'I yield,' said Shuya eventually.

Shogo Kawada was the first to laugh. From the back of the crowd, his gruff "hur hur" was instantly recognisable, and seemed to trigger something in the others. Within twenty seconds, everyone was cackling joyously - whether in support of Shuya's irony or in appreciation of Shuya's embarrassment, it didn't matter. What mattered to Shuya was the hard, still-unreadable stare from Kazuo, which kept him paralysed on the floor and (to his horror) elicited a stirring from between his legs.

He quickly looked away from Kazuo and grinned sheepishly, desperately imagining Mr Ina naked in the shower.


	4. Chapter 3: Stupid Kid

Christmas came and went. Winter thawed to a chilly spring, and Shuya was absorbed in learning the Stairway to Heaven guitar solo.

His fingers had never endured such agony; the tips peeled and blistered, and then the blisters popped and bled, and the whole of his left hand ached from hour after hour spent grasping the neck of his guitar, trying (and failing) to manipulate a tune out of the strings - and yet he continued to play.

He closed his eyes, and tried to breathe away his frustration.

There seemed to be no end to his frustration. Frustration at his already-calloused fingers, for not being calloused enough; frustration at the pain, which made it impossible to play unless his fingers were bandaged to twice their thickness; frustration at the damn bandages, for making him clumsy, missing the right strings and sometimes even missing the fretboard altogether; and on top of that, frustration at his own damn stubbornness. Yoshitoki had told him to give up on Stairway when he'd first started to physically suffer, a week previously; he'd told Shuya just a couple of days before as he helped him change his dressings, that his agony was his own damn fault and he'd better quit complaining or quit playing.

Shuya, quit playing? Inconceivable.

And so, he'd taken to staying behind after school, where he could play _and _complain, with no one around to tell him to stop.

He took one last, deep breath, and braced his fingers for further pain as he started over, from the beginning.

He hadn't been playing for ten seconds before he stopped again, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut as hard as he could, but a strangled groan escaped from his lips all the same.

For longer than he would be happy to admit, Shuya sat hunched over his guitar, clutching the fingers of his left hand and whimpering quietly. Remembering his own experience with musical-voyeurism, he glanced quickly around the room, but he was grateful to find that he was alone.

He stared down at his bloodied guitar, nibbling his lip, and put it to one side with a sigh. He buried his head in his hands - hissing in pain at the pressure on his fingers - and considered an issue (well, not an _issue, _exactly - more a dilemma in personal identity) that had been plaguing his mind for some time.

He'd even considered approaching Sho about it, but after witnessing a particularly disturbing exchange between Sho and Shinji, he decided that something as deeply personal and - well - _undiscovered _as what he was coming to realise, was not something that he particularly wished to discuss with Sho Tsukioka. The prospect was about as attractive as Toshinori Oda in the shower. (An eighth grade changing room incident that Shuya was in no hurry to repeat.)

As he was already on the subject, he really thought about the little frogman. He'd spoken to him just hours before, in music class; Oda had just performed for the class Mozart's Concerto no. 5 in A, and Shuya politely congratulated him. Toshinori's face had adopted the look of one who had been complimented by a rat, and unsure of how to respond, he'd sniffed and said, with a smug smile, 'Yes.'

Definitely unattractive, Shuya confirmed with guilty relief. But then another image threw itself to the forefront of his mind: Shogo Kawada's naked torso. Hundreds of Shogo Kawada's naked torsos. And his ass. God, he _was _staring at Shogo Kawada's ass. Did that make him a creep? Along with Sho and Kazushi Niida?

Shuya clenched his fists and shook his head so roughly that his vision became metallic and blurred.

'I am not a creep,' he announced. The _at least I fucking hope not _went unsaid.

Ms Ryoko had grounded into him from a very young age the importance of acceptance, but it wasn't _acceptance _that he was having trouble with; it was his own thoughtlessness. He was fourteen years old, and it upset him more than anything else that he could have undergone the majority of puberty without having _realised-_

He laughed shortly, and without humour. He'd been getting erections since he was ten, and most of the time he'd just assumed that they'd come about because of the developing attractiveness and - he swallowed, trying to be delicate - _forms _of the girls in his class. That was what Shinji said. (He knew a lot about the S word, _and_ its derivatives.)

Now that he thought about it - _really _thought about it - how many times had he been - ahem - truly "turned on" by a girl?

He chewed on the inside of his mouth and tried to stop himself becoming even more upset.

Now that he thought about it, he couldn't remember ever finding a girl attractive beyond her personality.

Now that he thought about it, he liked Kazumi Shintani for her music.

He liked Noriko for her quiet passion.

He liked Yukie for her confidence.

He kneaded his eyes with his knuckles, and brought Kazumi into his mind. He pictured her hair, her curves, her hands, her eyes, her smile, her skin. He imagined her naked and looked expectantly at his crotch.

Nothing.

He sighed and lay back on the table, staring glumly up at the grubby ceiling, and just for a moment, he contemplated coming out to his friends.

It probably wouldn't be so awful. Shinji would make inappropriate comments - but, then, that was what he did. He couldn't imagine any of them reacting badly.

But then - who knew? He lived in a judgmental, unforgiving country. It was unfortunate.

He quieted his thoughts, and yet they invariably turned to one person in particular.

There had been a homeroom reseating after Christmas, and from his new desk Shuya had the most perfect view of the back of Kazuo Kiriyama's head. The reseating coincided with a dramatic increase in the frequency with which Shuya was given detention, simply because he was irrevocably drawn to the pale skin of Kazuo's neck - only showed when he had his head bowed, and Shuya would watch impatiently, waiting for him to look down at his work, for a momentary flash of pale skin that he longed to reach out and just _touch._

Shuya snorted.

'How could I have only just found out?' he muttered, shamefaced. 'It's so damn obvious.'

How long he lay there, he didn't know. All he knew was that the room was beginning to darken by the time he sat up again and pulled his guitar back onto his lap.

He absentmindedly wiped spots of dried blood off the strings and began to strum. Random, basic chords; child's play, he thought. His fingers ached, but not enough to stop him from playing.

For a long time he didn't pay attention to the tune, electing instead to zone out to hopeful, tentative thoughts of an accepting, happy future for himself.

Seemingly of their own accord, his fingers began to play a familiar sequence of chords. A ghost of a smile flitted across his lips as, just for a moment, he was reminded of why he was in love with music.

Music was what he turned to when he was anything other than okay. People come and go, and pretend to love and proceed to leave - but music doesn't. This was what he reminded himself on that dull Spring afternoon, in an empty classroom after school, when he realised - even if a small part of him was still in denial - that he, Shuya Nanahara, preferred the company of men.

He sighed at his own phrasing. He really was a prude, sometimes.

_''Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood...'_

Shuya grasped his guitar, his rock and his centre of gravity, and he sang, and his fingers hurt and his head was a mess, but for the time being, he reminded himself that he was doing just fine.

_'"Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm"...'_

He sang through the verses softly, with barely any of the passion he gave at his music class performances, and he eventually closed his eyes and lowered his voice until it was little more than a whisper. He strummed and ached, and strummed and ached, and told himself over and over that he was still doing just fine.

Abruptly he straightened up and opened his eyes, flooded with a determination to crack this fucking Stairway solo, even if it killed him.

He started off well. Within half a minute he was reduced to a whining mess, clutching his throbbing fingers and wishing death upon the bastard who invented guitar solos.

Through the semi-open door, Kazuo Kiriyama watched with something alarmingly close to amusement and wondered if Nanahara was a closet masochist as well as a wannabe rock god. He quickly forgot all about it.

In the weeks that followed, and as Shuya stubbornly continued to rip his fingers to shreds in his desperate attempt to learn the bitch of a solo that was Stairway to Heaven, Kazuo found himself the unfortunate subject of childish gossip.

He was with his gang at lunch break, and Ryuhei stood to one side, performing a dramatic reenactment of his date the previous evening.

'...and then she _nibbled _my fucking _cock-'_

'Get to the bit where you gave up your V-plates,' interrupted Hiroshi.

Ryuhei's face took on a particularly ugly expression. 'Like _you _can talk,' he spat. 'The only time you came anywhere near some pussy was when you walked in on Utsumie and her lot getting changed for gym.'

'You fucking-!'

'I don't see what all the fuss is about, myself,' Sho sighed, filing his nails with meticulous care. 'There's something so very _vulgar _about the female genitalia.'

A momentary silence ensued, as was the usual reaction to any hint of queer.

A vein in Mitsuru Numai's forehead pulsated dangerously. 'Watch your tongue,' he growled as threateningly as he could. 'You insult the pussy, you insult me.'

Sho raised an eyebrow. 'I didn't know you identified as a pussy, Mitsuru darling. I'll be more considerate in future.'

'Fuck off,' he spat, shooting Ryuhei a furious glare at his snigger and thinking quickly of how to redeem himself from his blunder. 'I'm not a pussy. I get enough of it, though,' he smirked, with a lecherous wink to the Boss. The Boss didn't even blink.

'Well, you know what they say,' interjected Hiroshi with the air of one about to make an important announcement, 'you are what you eat.'

'And that would make Mitsuru the biggest pussy of them all,' smirked Ryuhei. 'Tell us again about the time you got pussywhipped into - what was it?'

'Two consecutive hours of cunnilingus, was it not?' finished Sho, tittering gleefully. Hiroshi and Ryuhei cackled in Mitsuru's reddening face.

Kazuo was bored. He didn't understand the cause of offence - or amusement, depending on whether the subject was Mitsuru or not.

That wasn't to say he didn't understand the semantics. He knew that "V-plates" was a crude reference to one's virginity. He knew that "pussy" was the preferred lexicon for the vagina among teenage boys. He even knew what cunnilingus was.

He was puzzled by the implications.

'Would one of you care to tell me why Mitsuru is in the wrong?'

He spoke quietly, but it was enough to silence the idiotic guffaws of Sho and Hiroshi and Ryuhei. They turned to him with equal parts alarm and pity.

Mitsuru suddenly came across all awkward. 'Whadya mean, Boss?'

Kazuo sighed. 'What I said. You administered oral gratification to someone of the opposite sex, and it undermines your masculinity. I don't understand.'

There was a pregnant silence, in which they tried to think of a way to provide an explanation to the Boss in words that he could understand.

'Well, Boss,' started Hiroshi, 'there's nothing hot about doing it.'

'Not for us, anyway,' added Ryuhei. He frowned. 'I dunno. I guess it's because we fuck because it feels good, and going down on a girl is a waste of time because there's nothing in it for us.'

'And what about her?' prompted Kazuo.

'Huh?'

'Is there nothing in it for her?'

'But that...' Ryuhei scratched his head. 'It doesn't matter if she gets nothing out of it. That's why what Mitsuru did was so dumb.'

'I see.' Kazuo's disdain for his followers increased tenfold. 'Do women not matter at all, then?'

'It's not that,' said Ryuhei hastily in a misguided attempt to amend his misogyny. 'Women are great, but only for one thing.' He paused, and nodded, apparently satisfied with himself.

Kazuo wanted to get away from them all, with their overactive libidos and anti-women tendencies. It was disgusting, the way they thought, but he didn't care enough about the women gullible enough to get into bed with them to warrant calling them up on it.

Instead he turned to Sho. 'You're not even interested in women. Why is Mitsuru repugnant for what he did?'

'Well - it's just - _ugh!' _Sho shuddered delicately. 'What lies between a woman's legs is disgusting. Slimy and bloody and - oh, and just so _wet.' _He winced for dramatic effect. _'You _know how it is, Kazuo-kun.'

_Kazuo-kun _released an inner sigh. 'No, I don't,' he said, without expression. 'I have no reason to.'

Mitsuru's entire body physically jolted, sending him at least an inch into the air as he stared at Kazuo, wide-eyed utterly aghast.

'Boss is a virgin?' he blurted. 'I mean,' he backtracked hastily, 'that's fine, that's cool, great-'

Sho elbowed him in the ribs. 'You're overreacting, darling.' He turned to Kazuo. 'Have you really never done the dirty, my love?'

Kazuo looked into the puzzled, curious faces of his loyal followers, and decided that honesty would be less effort than coming up with a lie he didn't care about. 'I have not,' he said.

Hiroshi scratched his head. 'Why?' he frowned.

'It is unnecessary,' Kazuo shrugged. 'I have no need for it.'

'But that's...' Mitsuru really seemed to be struggling with conceptualising the possibility that Boss was inexperienced in any field. He'd assumed that he had women over to his mansion all the time, and it was inconceivable to him that anyone would want to resist the temptation.

But then, sometimes he wondered if Boss was ever tempted by anything at all.

'Please, Mitsuru,' said Kazuo, with a touch of impatience, 'is my virginity that precious to you?'

'No, no, not at all,' he said quickly. 'I'm just surprised.'

Kazuo sighed again. It seemed to him that sex was more trouble than it was worth. He doubted that experience would cause him to have a change of opinion, and for that reason, there was no need for him to try.

He explained this to the four of them as simply as he could, but they still seemed no closer to considering any view other than "But it feels good on my dick!"

Eventually he gave up. It wasn't worth his time. He assumed, when he told them to drop it, that they would disregard and forget the conversation as quickly as he had, but when, in the days that followed, word got around that the formidable, exalted Kazuo Kiriyama was still a virgin, he supposed that he should not have expected so much of them. They were, after all, singleminded dimwits.

People thought that he hadn't noticed the stares and mutters that surrounded him, but they were wrong; he noticed. He failed to care, but that had never been a problem for him before.

Unwilling to approach one of his gang for help in explaining the connotations of an intact virginity, he did his research on the internet, and he was able to conclude that it was abnormal for a male of his age to have not yet had sex. He understood his friends' incredulity a little better upon reading a particularly informative, if scathing, article that stated with no room for interpretation that, for a man to be a virgin at fifteen, he was either mentally retarded or hideously ugly. Kazuo was neither, and so perhaps their surprise was understandable, if still ridiculous.

He made the mistake, again, of assuming that the matter of his virginity would be of so little significance to his classmates that they would disregard it quickly. He had wildly overestimated them, as he realised fully a few days later when he was propositioned by Hirono Shimizu.

She called after him as he walked away from school at the end of a tedious Friday.

'Kiriyama!'

He stopped walking, as she hurried to catch up with him.

'Hirono.' He nodded curtly.

She rolled her eyes. 'Don't pretend to tolerate me or anything, Iceman.'

Kazuo opened his mouth to give a weary reply, but she spoke again before he could:

'I heard about your predicament.'

He had an idea of where this was headed. 'Of what predicament do you speak?'

'Don't play dumb, Kiriyama. You know what I'm talking about.'

He sighed. 'I assume you're referring to the matter of my being a virgin,' he said stiffly.

She winked. 'Bingo.'

They walked together in silence, mutually agreeing with no communication that the conversation that was to follow was a conversation best had alone.

Once they were no longer surrounded by the bustle of Friday-afternoon hyperactivity, he stopped walking, and she followed his lead. They watched one another steadily, and he waited patiently for her to speak.

'I am offering you a solution,' she announced. She spread her arms open. 'Me.'

'I do not understand,' he said flatly.

She dropped her arms. 'What did I tell you about playing dumb?'

'Pretend, for a minute, that I am not _playing.'_

'I'm trying to be delicate.'

'Then be indelicate.'

'I propose that we fuck,' she said bluntly. She paused. 'You know, F-U-C-K? Intercourse? Coitus?'

'You are being facetious.'

'People are talking,' she continued, disregarding his comment. 'They're talking about how - uh - _unexpected _it is, that you're yet to give it up.'

'Get to the point, Hirono.'

She looked him straight in the eye, and Kazuo was briefly impressed by her gall. He was unused to being spoken to with anything other than respect and a certain degree of fear, and while he wasn't bothered about Hirono herself, he found that he appreciated her refreshing boldness.

'My point, Kiriyama, is that your virginity is putting your reputation at stake. You can be as hard as you want - pardon the expression - but you're already losing respect.'

He didn't care. He didn't care about his reputation, and he didn't care about his apparently-diminished respect. It seemed ridiculous to him, that reputation and respect were considered to be defining aspects of a person, and yet were determined by other people. Other people were unnecessary, and therefore, reputation and respect were nothing more than perks that came with being impenetrable.

Hirono did not need to know this. Kazuo furrowed his brow and tried to look concerned.

'Do you think?' he asked.

'I do,' she said solemnly.

He pretended to think about it. 'To be clear - you are, ah, _offering _yourself to me?'

She smirked. 'Think of it as a _charitable donation.'_

Kazuo paused as it occurred to him that, while he was initially inclined to reject her offer on the basis of his indifference towards the worthless opinions of others, sex was still, to him, uncharted territory. From the moment he was born, Kazuo had been accumulating an encyclopedic knowledge of as much as he could - for no other reason than _because _he could - and his recent research had led him to realise that sex, while unnecessary, was something that held a great deal of weight amongst the masses. It would be beneficial, perhaps, if he were to acquire even a rudimentary knowledge of the great, superfluous mystery that was sex.

He graciously accepted Hirono's charitable donation, and she took him to her room and rid him of his uniform and underclothes.

She was impressed. 'Well, hello,' she remarked in the direction of his crotch.

'Yes, hello,' he replied impassively. 'Take your clothes off, Shimizu.'

It struck him, when he first pushed into her, how warm it all was. Despite their nakedness, the sheer heat radiating from her skin as well as his own was as unexpected as the encompassing warmth that seeped through his entire body, culminating at the point of their contact, and surprising him with the intensity with which basic biology and human reactions to arousing stimuli could affect one as cold as himself. He bit his tongue to stop a groan from escaping and stopped, instead closing his eyes as he rested his forehead against hers and forced his arousal to calm, if only to save from "jizzing too soon" - an eloquent phrase he'd come across during his research - and even then, only because he was unwilling to abandon his newfound warmth before he had the opportunity to build on his rapidly expanding knowledge of sex.

Without opening his eyes, thereby forcing himself to be perceptive to other cues she gave, he lifted a hand from where it helped to support his weight on her slim body and rested it on her ribs, trailing a finger softly across the soft skin. He felt her tense, heard her breathing quicken.

He traced little circles on her body, and noted that her breath caught when he touched the protruding bone of her hip, and that a small gasp burst from between her lips when he palmed the soft flesh of her stomach, and that a not-so small gasp pierced the warm, heavy air between them when he gently nudged at the base of her triangle of dark hair with a feathery touch. His finger came away wet, and he touched her and paid attention to the feel of her hands scrabbling for purchase on his back, and he built up a mental diagram of the female body, and in his mind, made objective notes.

'You're a fast learner,' she panted.

'Stop talking,' he said.

He could get used to this, he realised as she shook underneath him, incomprehensible syllables pouring from her mouth that urged him to carry on with whatever he was doing. Out of curiosity, he stopped; faster than he expected, her hand grasped his throat and he opened his eyes to find her snarling dangerously.

_'Don't fucking stop or I swear, I will blind you,' _she hissed, her eyes already slipping in and out of focus as he obliged her, surprising her beyond comprehension when he, the virgin, brought her to orgasm. The big O was an unfortunately rare phenomenon for Hirono, and as he pulled out of her and put his clothes back on, a wide smirk crossed her pretty face.

It had been her original intention to do it just once with him; in light of recent events, she changed her mind.

* * *

Ok so here's some optional further reading about feminist!Kazuo:  
I have a theory that, owing to his being utterly apathetic to everyone - and I mean, _every_one - he is oblivious to any social connotations, including those associated with sex, and sexual insults. So when Sho and Hiroshi and Ryuhei are ragging on Mitsuru for giving head to a girl, Kazuo's all like 'hold the fuck up' because, while he cares for no one but himself, the rest of the world is on a level playing ground; man, woman, black, white, gay, straight, whatever - none of them are superior, because _he _is superior, and so they are all _in_ferior. In other words, the rest of the world is equal, and he is above them all. Therefore, for Mitsuru to be mocked for something as 'girly' as _mutual pleasure, _Sho and Hiroshi and Ryuhei are elevating themselves to be 'above' him, in terms of societal significance, and even just man-points. Kazuo doesn't like that, because only he is allowed to be better.  
So he's not exactly a feminist - hell, how can he be, when he's no kind of humanist - but he has no time for extraneous inequality when the only inequality there should be is the matter of Kazuo Kiriyama *greater than* Everyone.

* * *

Stairway to Heaven; copyright Led Zeppelin, 1971  
Shelter from the Storm; copyright Bob Dylan, 1975


	5. Chapter 4: Shinji

Shuya was drinking when he heard the news.

'Hey,' said Yutaka, leaning in conspiratorially to his friends, 'have you heard? Kiriyama's fucking Hirono Shimizu.'

Shuya coughed, spraying a fountain of Coke onto everyone in the near vicinity. He disregarded their disgust and stared wide-eyed at Yutaka, Coke dripping from his chin.

'He's _what?'_

Shinji stopped wiping his shirt and caught Shuya's eye, and watched him hard. As their friends complained at being infected with Shuya-DNA, Shinji and Shuya underwent a wordless exchange.

_You okay, man? _asked Shinji.

_I don't know, _shrugged Shuya helplessly.

Shinji narrowed his eyes. _We'll talk later, _they said.

'Jeez, Shu,' groaned Yoshitoki, flicking at the dark stain on his lap. 'It looks like I've pissed myself.'

Shuya blinked, and propped a guilty look on his face. 'Sorry, Yoshi,' he said with an apologetic grin. 'I'll aim for your face next time.'

He chucked his sandwich crust at Shuya's head.

Shuya was still picking crumbs out of his hair an hour later, as they milled around the basketball court in shorts and vests, ready for practice.

'I think there's butter in there,' he moaned. 'I definitely wasn't this greasy before.'

Shinji laughed. 'Thanks for the image there, bud. Everyone needs a lubed up Shuya to get them in the mood for basketball.'

The words "lubed up Shuya" attracted the attention of Sho, stretching his limbs delicately nearby, and he turned to them so quickly that they heard his neck crack.

'This sounds like my kind of conversation!' he commented with a high laugh, rubbing his neck before fixing his leering gaze on Shinji. 'But it has to be said, Shinji dear, that _you _would be _particularly _lovely, oiled up and lubricated. No offence, Shu,' he added, without looking at him, but Shuya didn't even notice.

His heart sank, and as Shinji again rejected Sho's flirtatious advances, Shuya thought sadly, and desperately, that there was nothing he _wouldn't _do to avoid being like Sho. People thought that Sho was disgusting; he made them uncomfortable, most of all the people he came onto. He watched Shinji recoil, physically repulsed by Sho Tsukioka, and felt great sadness that he would probably receive a similar reception.

It was obvious to all that Shuya Nanahara was in distraction. The renowned "Wild Seven" was not on top form at all; he missed several easy passes, forgot to bounce the ball and, of all the shots that he took, only one landed in the basket - and unfortunately, it was the basket of his own team. They groaned, and Mr Ina demoted him to the bench where, even sitting with Yoshio Akamatsu and Toshinori Oda, he didn't have it in him to be embarrassed.

From across the hall, Yoshitoki frowned in confusion and asked Shinji what he thought was wrong with Shu. Shinji's expression took on a hardness, and without explanation, he apologised to Yoshitoki.

'Huh?'

'I'm sorry, Yoshi.'

'For what?'

'This.'

Just as the whistle blew to signal the restart of the game, Shinji tripped Yoshitoki, quite deliberately, onto his face.

As he'd anticipated, the whistle screamed through the air before the ball had even passed from one person to another.

'Mimura!' roared Mr Ina. 'Foul play! You're off!'

'You have my sincere apologies, sir,' said Shinji as he helped the confused Yoshitoki to his feet before crossing the court to settle between Shuya and Toshinori. Upon realising that the smug, clever, athletic, popular, good-looking, vulgar cretin Shinji Mimura had dared to sit within a metre of him, Toshinori sniffed in disgust, stood, and moved as far away as he could, far out of earshot.

Shinji winked at Shuya. 'I know how to get 'em, don't I?' he snarked.

Shuya tried not to giggle. 'Don't be mean.'

Shinji elbowed him in the ribs. 'You shouldn't be so kind. He'd destroy you in a second if he was clever enough to know your weaknesses.'

'And what, oh wise one, are my weaknesses?'

He pretended to think. 'Your gullibility.'

'I'm not gullible, Mim.'

Shinji rolled his eyes, and tried another tactic. 'While we're on the subject, did you know that the word "gullible" has been removed from the dictionary?'

'Really? Why?'

'Apparently it's too offensive.'

_'What? _But that's-'

Realisation dawned on Shuya. He scowled.

'You ass.'

'Just proving a point.'

'Doesn't mean you weren't being an ass about it.'

'Okay, okay,' Shinji relented. 'I'm sorry.'

He watched as Shuya's unconvincing glare let up, to be replaced with a kind of melancholia that didn't suit him.

This he told him, and Shuya tried to brush it off.

'I'm not melancholy, Mim. I'm happy.'

'Bullshit,' he said bluntly. 'Tell me why you spat all over the place when you heard who Kiriyama's doing these days.'

At his name, Shuya winced and quickly hid it with a small cough. 'I - I had something caught in my throat.'

'Bullshit.'

'I _did!'_

'Bull_shit!'_

'What do you want me to say, Mim?'

'Without trying to sound like a bad preteen romance movie, I want you to tell me the truth.'

'And without sounding like that godawful American movie, you can't handle the truth.'

Shinji laughed - really laughed - and for a minute, Shuya relaxed, thinking he was off the hook.

Very abruptly, the laughter stopped, and Shinji gave him a look that said, very clearly, "Stop bullshitting me, Nanahara. You're fooling no one."

Shuya bit his lip nervously and looked out at the court to avoid meeting his friend's searching gaze.

Whether coincidentally or whether he was subconsciously looking for him, Shuya found himself watching Kazuo, standing away from the action and naturally looking bored. The artificial light screaming down on them all made him appear even more pale.

Shuya scrutinised him as best he could from afar. Assuming Yutaka's sources to be reliable, it would seem that Kazuo had, in fact, "done the dirty" at last (something that Shuya himself was admittedly yet to do). He wondered if Kazuo felt any different. He guessed that Kazuo was unlikely to confide that sort of thing in anyone, least of all him. He wished he would - _could - _speak to him.

It was common knowledge that Shuya could talk his way out of an apocalypse and probably charm it into submission, but it would seem that, of late, his charisma, his easiness, and even his ability to speak with coherence, had abandoned him.

Shuya desperately - more than anything - wanted to speak to him. He wished that he _could _speak to him. He wanted to speak to him about - about _her. _As his thoughts strayed to the point of no return, he wondered if Kazuo had enjoyed it. If he'd enjoyed her.

'I don't know about that,' replied Shinji, and Shuya was horrified to realise that he had voiced his thoughts. 'Kiriyama doesn't enjoy anything, much. Well,' he added, 'maybe being a heartless psycho, but by definition he probably doesn't even enjoy that.'

'He's not a heartless psycho!' protested Shuya, more loudly than necessary. Shinji grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him roughly.

'Pipe _down_, Nanahara,' he hissed. 'I don't know where your fixation with Kiriyama has come from, but if _you _want to fuck him as well, then I'd suggest keeping it on the down low until he's gotten bored of Hirono.'

Shuya's lips flapped as the air left his lungs, and struggled to be replaced. He stared at Shinji, panicking wildly and gagging on his own breath.

Shinji himself was calm. 'For God's sake, stop stressing. It's not like I _care.'_

'It- it isn't that,' Shuya lied, 'but it's just - I _don't! _I don't want to-'

'Give it up, Shu,' interrupted Shinji, exasperated. 'You gave yourself away with that beautiful "Oh, I wish I could speak to him" soliloquy. Thought you were about to burst into song. It was quite poetic.'

With enormous effort, Shuya sucked a lungful of oxygen into his body. 'I said that?' he groaned pitifully.

Shinji clapped a hand over his mouth. 'Pipe _down!'_

'I didn't say that!' he wailed, muffled.

Shinji took his hand away and gave him a strange look. 'You said it less than a minute ago, Shu. You said that he looks pale. And then you mentioned his neck. And then you said, and I quote, "I wonder if he enjoyed her".'

'I don't...' Shuya rubbed his eyes. 'I don't remember,' he muttered.

Shinji placed a large hand on his friend's forehead. Shuya jumped at the contact. 'You're burning up, Shu.'

'Am I?'

Shinji dropped his hand, sighing as the whistle blew, and Mr Ina called them back into play.

'Shuya,' he said in a low voice as the two troublemakers stood, 'I won't tell anyone.'

Shuya panicked. 'Won't tell anyone what?' he said, with an awkward laugh.

Shinji leaned into his ear, and though Shuya doubted it was intentional, the warm, minty, _male _breath that ghosted across the delicate skin of his neck stunned his tangled thoughts, and for less than a second he was seized by an irrational desire for his friend to disregard the people that surrounded them, friends and not-friends, and kiss him, so he could get more of the warm, minty male-ness that he'd never noticed before on Shinji Mimura.

He was so distracted that he missed completely what Shinji had leaned in to say what he wouldn't tell anyone.

'Huh?'

'Jeez, Shuya, now you're spacing out on _me_?'

He blushed. 'Sorry.'

Shinji rolled his eyes. 'Don't apologise_. I'm _not the one going through a rite of self-discovery. And I'm sorry, Shu,' he added unexpectedly, with sincerity that surprised Shuya into meeting his earnest gaze, 'I'm sorry that you're not yourself. You will be, soon.'

'I...' Shuya bit his lip desperately. 'I'm not - I'm -'

'Gay.'

_'Shh!'_

'Whatever you say, Shu. But know that if you score an own-goal again, I _will _call everyone you know and inform them that you want to suck dick.'

Before Shuya could verbally or physically retaliate, Shinji bounded out of reach and seized the ball with a cheeky cackle.

Despite the somewhat-puzzling support from Shinji Mimura, it took Shuya longer than he would have liked to reach a state of acceptance.

Weeks passed. He woke in the morning and went to sleep at night, and the time in between was glazed with a vacant kind of preoccupation.

One Thursday evening found him lying back on a table in the music room, thinking that he was becoming far too familiar with the grubby ceiling than he should have been. He had taken to isolating himself in there in the hopes that, if he was surrounded by music, his forte and his language, then he would figure himself out with minimal trauma. It was a foolish thought, but he still liked the peace of the music room.

As he lay it occurred to him that acceptance was likely to come more quickly if he was to _talk_ about it, to put into words the untidy mess that comprised the inside of his head in an attempt to understand it, but the only person he considered was immediately rejected.

He cared too much about Yoshitoki. As much as he hated that he thought it, the possibility of facing rejection from his best friend was too terrifying to consider; he figured that approaching a person about an issue as sensitive as the G word always came with a chance that the reaction would be negative, and he was not willing to risk that happening with Yoshitoki Kuninobu.

A bad reaction was a universal risk of which Shuya was aware, but it didn't stop him from being afraid. He'd heard horror stories, of men caught behaving just a bit too girly being "taken in"; what happened to them after that was an ominous mystery, and he wasn't sure that he wanted to know. He was _scared - _and as much as he didn't believe that Yoshitoki would sell him out to the authorities, he was saddened to realise that, to ensure his own safety, he would be best figuring himself out on a basis of complete secrecy.

It wasn't in his nature to not trust his friends, and his uncomfortable silence gave him cause to sink further into unfamiliar depression.

He was sad - desperately sad - and he was in a curious state of desperately wanting and desperately _not _wanting to gather his friends together and say to them all outright that he was - you know. _That._

He tried practicing the words, to see how they sounded in his mouth. With a nervous glance around the music room, and a double-check to make sure that the door was firmly shut, Shuya opened his mouth and said, very quietly:

'I'm gay.'

He braced himself, half-expecting squads of armed forces to smash through the window, leap out at him from the cupboards, burst through the door - and a man in khaki with mirrored sunglasses and three stripes on his arm and a solemn expression would approach him - 'Nanahara Shuya, come with us,' he would say, in a deep voice laden with a promise to lead Shu into a world of pain that left him frozen, terrified of the threat that crackled in the air like static-

He shook himself roughly. The windows were unsmashed, he was alone, and no one had heard him. He was okay.

He tried it again.

'I'm gay,' he said.

The words sounded... fine. Unused, yes. Strange, of course. But unnatural? Ill-fitting? Not at all. He exhaled, releasing a short laugh of unrestrained, complete relief that the first bit was over. And it was okay.

'It's okay, Shuya,' he mumbled, bending to unzip his guitar case. 'I promise it will be okay.'

He straightened, holding his guitar by the neck, and in his giddy state of half-euphoria, reasoned that this called for a celebratory song.

_'Happy birthday to me...'_

He sang in English, strumming lightly to the easy tune as he happily disregarded the seasonal inappropriateness (given that he wasn't due to turn sixteen for another five months), and he relished in the feeling of - of beginning to feel like _him _again.

_'...happy birthday dear me-e...'_

He improvised, making use of his rarely-practiced falsetto, and squeezed his eyes shut and stopped playing to press a fist to his heart, before tailing off and chuckling at his own emoting. With a smile, he brought his hand back to the strings, and went for a sharp, blues style to end with.

_'...happy birthday' _(rest) _'to me!'_

There was a momentary pause before he became aware, in his peripheral, of a space where the door was meant to be. He turned to find it open, and to find himself watched.

'Am I interrupting?' asked Kazuo drily.

Shuya's heart beat so fast that he felt lightheaded. He gripped his guitar tightly, until the ends of his fingers turned white and began to hurt, and shook his head crookedly.

'Of course not,' he said, in a voice far more calm than his thoughts. His heartbeat shot up another notch when Kazuo stepped into the room, and as his eyes unwittingly strayed to the triangle of skin that showed where the top button of his shirt was undone, he shifted his guitar to cover more of his lap.

Kazuo didn't appear to notice. 'I would have thought that you, of all people, would have no need to spend your birthday alone.'

'It's-' Shuya's voice came out at least an octave higher than was usual. He cleared his throat, his face beginning to redden, and tried again. 'It's not my birthday. I was- I was practicing. There's a kid at the orphanage turning ten next week, and he doesn't want a party, so I thought it'd be nice if - if -' He was rambling, and he knew it. 'I just thought it'd be nice,' he finished weakly.

I don't care, Nanahara, thought Kazuo, seeing through the lie as if it was made of glass, but it seemed polite to humour him.

'I see.'

That would suffice.

Shuya was visibly relieved that Kazuo had dropped it - but still tense. As he walked to the music cupboard, Kazuo wondered what Nanahara had to be tense about - but it didn't concern him. He disregarded the thought before he'd taken two steps.

Shuya watched with big eyes as Kazuo took a regulation school guitar, and settled himself on the table opposite his own.

He glanced up, to find Nanahara looking at him as though he'd just kicked a puppy.

'Is this seat taken?' he asked.

'No, no,' said Shuya quickly, forcing himself into the conventions of basic conversation as his head (and his libido) reacted uproariously to the - dare he think it - _intimacy _of the setting. A small, dim room, glowing a dark orange in the sunset, with Kazuo Kiriyama less than a metre away-

Recalling his previous bout of accidental verbalising, he shut his thoughts up as best he could and said innocently, 'I didn't know you played.'

Kazuo bowed his head and flexed his fingers around the neck of the guitar, and a cold jolt of electricity shot up Shuya's spine. 'I am learning,' he murmured, plucking a tune so quiet that Shuya had to strain to hear. He only realised that he had been leaning forwards when Kazuo abruptly snapped his head up, putting their faces to within a couple of feet of each other. Shuya quickly straightened up, intensely aware of their proximity, where Kazuo appeared to be oblivious.

'May I?' Kazuo asked.

Shuya blinked. 'May you what?'

'Play. It is tedious, finding an unlocked classroom at this time. I won't be here for long.'

Amid his panic and paranoia and insignificance, Shuya was disappointed. 'Of- of course you can,' he said, with as much joviality as he could muster. 'Nowhere better than the music room.'

'True,' Kazuo conceded, beginning to pluck again. He looked up at Shuya as though he had just remembered something, and his playing stopped.

'You play.' It was not a question, yet Shuya felt compelled to answer as though it was.

'Yes, I do,' he confirmed. His hands began to sweat. He rubbed them against his trousers as inconspicuously as he could.

Something close to a smile flitted across Kazuo's features. 'Will you show me?'

Almost reflexively, Shuya smirked. As silly as it was, he had always used his music to impress girls that he had liked, and he chose to see this request to play for Kazuo as an opportunity to impress the _guy _that he was beginning to like. (It did occur to him that the difference between Kazuo Kiriyama and the girls that flocked to him each time he played was gargantuan, but he didn't want to think about it.)

He swallowed. 'What should I show you?'

Kazuo took his hand off the neck and rested both on the guitar's body. 'Something impressive.'

'No pressure, huh?' chuckled Shuya nervously, bracing his fingers to play Stairway.

After weeks of torture, his efforts had paid off. Just days previously, he had gone home after another hour tearing his fingers to shreds. He went straight to Yoshitoki, reading in their room, and cleared his throat.

'I have an announcement to make,' he said importantly.

Yoshitoki looked Shuya up and down. 'Your hand is bleeding,' he pointed out.

Shuya ignored him. 'I, Nanahara Shuya, have perfected the Stairway to Heaven guitar solo. I hereby claim my title as Supreme Lord of the Universe.'

'Finally! Go, Shu!' cheered Yoshitoki. 'But seriously, you should get your hand looked at.'

And so Shuya flexed his (still throbbing) fingers, tuned out of real life, and played.

Seven minutes later, he stopped, and looked up. Despite the painful squeezing in his chest at Kazuo watching him intently, he managed to grin hugely in some sort of self-satisfaction. His smile lessened only slightly when he saw that his joy was not mutual, and he reminded himself that this _was _Kazuo Kiriyama.

'That was impressive,' said Kazuo, in a voice that Shuya noticed was not sarcastic - but neither was it complimentary, the way everyone else was. He realised that Kazuo wasn't making a point; he was simply stating a fact.

Shuya felt a small thrill at having _figured out_ a fraction of the enigmatic Kazuo Kiriyama before he chided himself for, just maybe, reading too much into a simple utterance.

'Thanks,' he said. 'Took ages to learn,' he added, examining his fingertips to avoid looking the other man in the eye.

Kazuo nodded, his brow furrowed. He picked up his guitar, tweaked the tuning pegs, and said, 'Tell me if I go wrong.'

He proceeded to play the whole of Stairway to Heaven.

When he was finished, he looked up to see Shuya gazing at him as if he was something he'd never seen before. He was still, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere on Kazuo's chest.

Kazuo snapped his fingers. Shuya jumped, and shouted:

_'How?'_

'Excuse me?'

'Y-' Shuya coughed. 'You'd never played that before?'

He inclined his head. 'Correct.'

'But that- you- but I- _weeks- _I don't-' Shuya clapped a hand over his own mouth before he could embarrass himself further, and counted to ten. Kazuo watched patiently. He took a deep breath, and tried again.

'You learned a seven minute guitar solo in the time it took for you to see it played?'

Kazuo pretended to think about it. (He did a lot of that.) 'So it would seem,' he said.

'But...' Shuya shook his head, and forced the stirrings of primal jealousy to transfer to feelings of awe. He knew that Kazuo inspired awe in most people, but to have witnessed what he had just witnessed, heard what he heard, and for Kazuo to be so _calm _- he wasn't sure what he wanted to do, but if the familiar twitching in his groin was anything to go by, he could guarantee that it wasn't something he'd be happy doing in front of other people.

'How?' he said eventually, his voice hollow despite his best efforts to not be bitter. 'How do you do it?'

Kazuo blinked. 'I don't understand. How did I play?'

Shuya nodded.

'I watched you,' he said, with the air of one explaining to a small child exactly _why _two plus two equals four. 'I watched you, and I copied you. How does the saying go - "monkey see, monkey do"? It is simple.'

Shuya wanted to object. He wanted to tell him that, no, it was _not _simple, and that he was astonished, and he wanted to lean across to close the space between them and sweep away the wisps of hair that were straying onto his forehead, but in the end he opted for something only marginally less dumb.

'You're brilliant,' he said. 'I guess you get told that a lot.'

'Correct,' said Kazuo again. Shuya carried a laugh on his exhalation.

_You're fascinating, _he wanted to say. _You're brilliant. You know you're brilliant. And yet you take it for granted. How can it be, that someone with a mind capable of reducing a complex piece of music to something you can learn as if it were the simplest thing, can be so utterly oblivious to what it __**means **__for you to be so damn brilliant?_

He settled for a tiny, awkward laugh, fixing his eyes on his lap and wallowing in his feelings of unworthiness in comparison to the boy sitting opposite him.

'Lucky,' he sighed, horribly aware that one word was not an accurate paraphrase of all that was running through his mind.

Kazuo raised an eyebrow. 'Am I?'

Shuya looked up, alarmed. Kazuo's voice had adopted a steely undertone, and he could see in his face that he had said the wrong thing.

Kazuo was, in fact, just surprised; he _was _told that he was brilliant - too often for it to mean anything, even to someone for whom emotions such as pride or gratitude came naturally - but he had never, in his life, been called "lucky". Thinking about it, he supposed it was likely that people envied his brilliance, and yet, saw and pitied his suffering; or, at least, how they _thought _he should suffer. Indeed, the Shimizu girl had asked, after their last - ah - _encounter_, if it was true.

'Is what true?' he'd asked, turning back to her with his shirt undone. The way her eyes hungrily perused his chest did not go unnoticed.

'I heard that you don't feel,' she said, speaking to his naval.

'So?'

She looked up. 'So. Is it true? Do you feel? _Can _you?'

He paused. 'Answer me this,' he said. 'Approximately twenty minutes ago, describe to me what _you _were feeling.'

Hirono - Mitsuko Souma's feared second-in-command, with a reputation for jumping on anything phallic if there was something in it for her - blushed.

She knew what he was referring to. It so happened that, approximately twenty minutes previously, she had introduced Kazuo to the particular kind of intimacy that Mitsuru Numai had apparently endured.

'I was happy,' she said eventually. 'I felt - kind of - high?'

Kazuo nodded. 'What else?'

She narrowed her eyes, uneasy. 'I don't want to say.'

'Oh?'

'I felt...' She buried her face in her knees, not liking the way the conversation was going. She regretted ever starting it. 'I felt special,' she said, muffled.

'Why?'

She shook her head, distressed. 'Sorry I asked. Drop it.'

He watched her with indifference, knowing that, despite asking it of him, _she _would not drop it. He waited patiently for her to say what she wanted to say.

After several minutes of uneven breathing and thoughts flying around her head too quickly for her to accurately comprehend, she looked up.

'I felt special because it was you, and because - because you _hadn't_, before.' She paused. 'That sounded creepy. I mean - you're _Kazuo Kiriyama. _Know what I mean?'

'I know who I am, yes.'

'Yes,' she persisted, 'but do you know what that _means?'_

Ah, there it was. Again, with the connotations.

He shook his head. 'Elaborate.'

'Oh, _God!' _She tugged her short hair, feeling individual strands pulled from her scalp, and she hated herself with a passion to which she was unused. 'I promised myself to never get involved,' she muttered, more to herself than to Kazuo. 'I mean-' She laughed harshly. '-they always say, never get involved with a client-'

'You offered, Shimizu. I am not paying you.'

'I never said _you _were a client,' she spat. 'I'm _saying, _in the only way I know how, that I like you.'

He didn't even blink. 'I was aware.'

She fisted her hands tightly around the sheets, knowing that she was in danger of hitting him, and met his cold eyes with a clenched, painful heart.

'I get you, Kiriyama. You don't feel, you _can't _feel, and you'll certainly never feel anything for me. Believe me,' she laughed shortly, 'that isn't why I started this. I don't need _you _to feel for me. I just wanted to know-' She broke off, breathing heavily, and thoroughly disconcerted at the insecurity that plagued her in that moment.

Kazuo remained motionless, standing above her at the foot of the bed. 'What do you want to know?' he asked flatly.

She took a minute to calm her breathing, and when she was ready to speak, found that she couldn't look at him. 'Is it better, not feeling?' she asked, in a voice so small that it would have wrenched at the heartstrings of anyone other than the man to whom she was speaking.

He blinked. 'I assume you would like complete honesty.'

She nodded.

'Yes, and no.' He pinched the bridge of his nose, recalled an article he had recently read that promoted extended talking as beneficial to mental health, and continued: 'Feelings are an obstruction. Without them I am able to achieve more highly than anyone else, because _feeling _would mean that I would feel guilt, each time someone loses to me; pride, at being better; and arrogance, as a result of the suppression of the former and the cognitive inflation of the latter.' He lowered his hand. 'And yet, feeling nothing makes ambition redundant, because all ambitions are mere short-term goals. You complete one success, and move to the next without thought and without a sense of achievement. It is simple.'

Hirono rubbed the back of her neck thoughtfully. 'That makes sense. What else?'

He was silent for a long time.

'Twenty minutes ago, you felt special,' he began, and her heart turned to lead. 'I felt nothing. When I touch you, all I feel is anatomy. You could be anyone.'

Hirono tried not to be hurt. 'I see.'

He examined her face. 'Judging by your change in tone, it is safe to assume that I have offended you. Presumably due to the inferred meaning of "you could be anyone" to be "you mean nothing" - am I right?'

She managed a smile. 'As always.'

He shrugged. 'I would apologise, but it would be insincere. I don't feel remorse. I spoke the truth; you _could _be anyone, but that does not mean that I don't appreciate that you are not anyone else.'

At her look of confusion, he continued: 'You don't hassle me at school. You know yourself, because you have, as they say, "been there, done that". Most importantly, you are not flustered by rumours.' He stopped, and looked at her. 'These are good qualities, Shimizu.'

'Well, thanks,' she said, unsure of how she was meant to feel now.

'I appreciate you,' he said, 'because you are uncomplicated.'

'Huh.'

'And because you are uncomplicated, and because I know that what I am about to tell you will not leave this room for fear of my refusing to come back, I can tell you something.'

She ignored the slight and cocked her head to one side. 'Go on.'

'Sometimes I see people - people like Nanahara - looking so very _happy_, that I wonder how it would be to feel that.' He paused. 'If I was given a choice, to sacrifice my genius in order to feel, I do not know if I would accept or decline.'

And so, there he sat in the rapidly-darkening music room, having "blown the figurative mind" of Nanahara Shuya and wondering how it could be that the one person for whom he felt the stirrings of envy would, in turn, envy _him. _Could he not see the emptiness? The emotional cul-de-sac that resided in the body of a young man with dead eyes still holding a guitar in his hands?

Kazuo put the guitar to one side.

'There are people far luckier than I,' he said quietly. He raised his eyes to meet Shuya's, and found himself already watched by the wide eyes that had so many girls captivated, if Hirono's absentminded chatter was anything to go by.

For a moment, Kazuo almost pitied Shuya. The phrase, "look into the abyss" crossed his mind.

Aware that Nanahara was gazing at him with an intensity that he wasn't sure was normal, he tried for a joke. 'You'll catch your death if you don't stop watching me, Nanahara.'

Shuya blinked several times. 'Sorry?' he said at last.

Kazuo laughed shortly, because it seemed an appropriate time to try to develop a sense of humour. 'I am referring to myself as dead, Nanahara, and thus implying that death is contagious. It's a joke,' he explained.

Shuya's face dropped; Kazuo frowned. That wasn't the reaction he'd expected.

'You're many things, Kazuo, but you aren't dead,' said Shuya sadly.

With a raised eyebrow in surprised acknowledgement of Nanahara's use of his first name, Kazuo replied: 'Then what am I, _Nanahara?'_

Shuya stared down at his lap, so deep in thought that he didn't notice Kazuo grow bored waiting for a reply; neither did he notice him stand, and return the guitar to its cupboard. It was, in fact, only when Kazuo had reached the door to leave that he spoke at last.

'You're missing something,' he said.

Kazuo stilled. He turned back to Nanahara, and from across the small room, the two men watched each other steadily.

'Yes,' he confirmed. 'I am. What do you propose to do about it, Nanahara?

Though unintentional, his words appeared to inspire a change in Nanahara; a barely-perceptible change in the rising and falling of his chest indicated an irregular heartbeat, accompanied by an increased breathing rate, and - most interestingly - a drastic dilation of his pupils.

With mild surprise, Kazuo came to the conclusion that Nanahara was - biologically, at least - attracted to him. Even to him, that seemed funny. Without waiting for an answer, he turned and left, and briefly entertained the notion of the emotion-driven Nanahara wanting to be with _him. _The idea was laughable, though he didn't bother trying to laugh.


	6. Chapter 5: A Bigger Spot of Bother

Hard lips, warmer than he'd expected, pressed against his own.

Shuya responded comfortably, and in a way that told him he was used to these lips; he was familiar with the way they moved, and the way they felt, and as his hands rose to caress a neck that he recognised, he realised that this person was, to him, as natural as breathing.

He settled into the kiss, and became gradually aware of the warmth of a whole body against his: a pair of hands skimming the skin (the _naked _skin) of his sides; a hard expanse of torso radiating heat like a furnace onto his own; a distinct extremity, pushing against his pelvis, thrusting almost imperceptibly against his lower body-

A yard-rule slammed down on his desk. Shuya jumped straight out of his dream and found himself under uncomfortable scrutiny.

'Nanahara Shuya, how many times?' said Mr Hayashida, exasperated. 'Keep the daydreaming to outside of class!'

Shuya tried to make a funny quip to redeem himself, but was instead interrupted by a great, shuddering yawn.

'Am I _boring _you, Nanahara?' asked Mr Hayashida, infuriated. Someone tittered.

Shuya tried for a cheeky smile. 'Not at all, Sir. But you know how it is; the ghosts of history never have anything interesting to say! You can't blame me for taking a nap. It's not like the ancient Chinese dynasty will have changed much by the time I wake up.'

Mr Hayashida narrowed his eyes. 'This is math class, Nanahara.'

Shuya's smile dropped. 'Is it?'

It was the wrong thing to say. He knew what was going to happen before it happened.

'Detention, Nanahara,' said Mr Hayashida with a long-suffering sigh.

Shuya hung his head. 'Sorry, sir.'

'I understand, Nanahara.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'You're still on cleaning duty.'

It wasn't worth the argument. Shuya was getting to be quite good at cleaning; he'd even taken to carrying a pair of rubber gloves in his bag, on the off-chance that he would irritate Mr Hayashida into assigning him to cleaning duty again.

'It stops my hands from itching,' he explained to Shinji when he'd found out.

Shinji had shaken his head in disbelief. 'You astonish me, Shu. You're getting more gay by the-'

_'Shh!' _said Shuya instinctively, glancing around to make sure that no one had heard.

'Sorry, sorry,' said Shinji, in a tone that conveyed no remorse whatsoever, but even so, he too checked their immediate vicinity before leaning closer and lowering his voice: 'Have you thought any more about - y'know-'

He nodded nervously. 'No one knows,' he whispered, before looking at Shinji with pleading, desperate eyes: _'Please _don't tell anyone. Please, Mim.'

Shinji flicked him on the forehead. 'I won't, idiot. I haven't, and I promise-' He crossed his heart. '-that I never will.' He lowered his hand. 'Okay?'

'Okay,' confirmed Shuya. He glanced around again.

'Shu,' said Shinji, 'you're going to draw attention to yourself if you keep acting shifty.'

In class - _math _class - Shuya tried valiantly to get involved in angles and degrees and Pi and diameters and radii, but within minutes, he was, again, resting his head on his hands, gazing ahead, utterly absorbed in the back of Kazuo Kiriyama's neck.

He blinked. He'd been dreaming about a neck. Touching a neck; feathering an unimaginably soft, white neck with his fingertips-

He groaned, and buried his head in his hands. He was becoming obsessed.

Around the time that Shuya tentatively acclimatised himself to his own sexuality, Kazuo Kiriyama figured out his own in less than a minute.

Reminded of Nanahara's infatuation, he took advantage of Mr Hayashida's distraction at the hands of the thinner Nakagawa girl to slip his mini-computer inconspicuously onto his desk and, after only a little research, came to the conclusion that he himself was _aromantic_.

"'A person who experiences little to no romantic attraction",' he read aloud, unheard among the hubbub and general noise of the class, '"and yet may experience sexual attraction".' He paused, and shut the computer. 'I see,' he muttered.

_'What _do you see, Kiriyama Kazuo?'

Complete silence spread across the class like a rapid disease. Kazuo sighed, berating himself for not being more careful, and looked up. Mr Hayashida scowled down at him, his eyes magnified through his bottle-shaped glasses. Kazuo was reminded irrevocably of an angry, bug-eyed hound.

'What am I _supposed _to see, Sir?' he asked politely, with an innocent, empty smile that triggered a shiver so cold down Mr Hayashida's spine that he felt numb.

Mr Hayashida suddenly remembered the gym teacher's eyeball. It had never occurred to him to discipline the Kiriyama boy; he heard rumours, as did everyone, of his extracurricular gang-based activities, but in class, Kiriyama fell under the quiet, unassuming, undisruptive type. The rumours didn't seem relevent when the student in question kept his head down and handed his work in on time.

His eyes widened and he gulped, unconsciously taking a step back from his pupil.

Kazuo watched his breathing quicken, watched the vein in his neck pulsate, and was quietly satisfied that his teacher was afraid - before an unexpected image flew to the forefront of his mind.

Nanahara. Nanahara watching him, escalated heartbeat and rapid breathing - and Kazuo frowned. He'd thought that Nanahara had been feeling attraction. And yet, with his reaction being not at all dissimilar to Mr Hayashida's, could it be that Kazuo had been wrong? Was Nanahara _afraid _of him?

Kazuo frowned more. Something very, very deep inside of him did not want Nanahara to fear him. Unused to being mistaken, or uncertain, or _not _wanting to be feared, he resolved to find opportunity to speak further to Nanahara, if only to ascertain whether or not he ought to be flattered or disappointed.

It took him a moment to remember that he did not have a history of responding to flattery or disappointment. But still, he did not wish for Nanahara to be afraid - least of all, afraid of him.

He dismissed Mr Hayashida with a wave of his hand, and he went scurrying back to his desk as Kazuo steepled his fingers and began to plot.

Two minutes and twenty seconds later, a paper aeroplane soared gracefully across the room and poked Mr Hayashida in the eye.

'Ow!' he barked, and forty-two students looked up to find their teacher pulling a piece of paper from his sore eye, baffled and annoyed. He stood, holding the aeroplane and blinking rapidly to try and clear the watering, and demanded to know who had thrown it.

Instead of the stale silence he expected, one person rose to his feet with the same innocent, empty smile that instilled a kind of primal dread in the experienced teacher. Mr Hayashida's heart sank.

'Sir,' said Kazuo nonchalantly. The silence that followed was almost stifling.

Dotted around the room, his followers wondered if Boss had lost his mind.

From several rows back, Shuya was drawn straight to Kazuo's... behind. (From the adjacent seat, Shinji did not fail to notice where Shuya was looking, and he rolled his eyes.)

From the front of the class, Mr Hayashida panicked.

'Sit down, Kiriyama,' he barked. 'Please,' he added, with a touch of desperation.

Kazuo obeyed, and oblivious to the questioning faces of his family, rested his chin on his hands to watch Mr Hayashida unfold the crumpled aeroplane.

Shuya forced the image of Kazuo's butt from his mind in time to see Mr Hayashida's face undergo a wide variety of changes in facial expression as he read, and he wondered what Kiriyama had written.

Mr Hayashida sank into complete disillusionment.

_Mr Hayashida- _it read_ - or should I call you Dragonfly? We ought, after all, to be on first-name terms by now, don't you think?  
__Provided my calculations are correct (which, of course, they will be), the plane will crash-land in your left eye.  
__I calculated the required trajectory and force through applied use of Pythagoras' theorem. I felt you ought to know that your math lessons are being put to practical use.  
__Furthermore, you are an incompetent ignoramus with invasive halitosis and an offensive lack of control over your spitting. I suggest you invest in a mask as soon as possible.  
__Sincerely,  
__Kazuo Kiriyama_

Mr Hayashida counted to ten. And then again. And again. Each time, trying to quell the rising level of panic and fear that took precedence over basic professionalism.

Had it been anyone else to abuse a teacher, they would have been in enormous trouble. As it was, Mr Hayashida did not trust Kazuo Kiriyama to not exact a painful revenge for sullying his otherwise-spotless school record.

On the other hand, he could not let him go unpunished. Letting one person off for a serious offence was a slippery slope to anarchy.

Eventually, he reached a decision.

'Kiriyama,' he called, over the scratch-scratch of pens and the math-based angst that occupied the majority of muted conversation, 'you can join Nanahara in cleaning duty.'

Kazuo nodded, satisfied. 'Excellent,' he said, to the immense confusion of everyone in the room.

Shuya forgot to breathe for a moment.

Once class was over, and everyone else had left, he shuffled awkwardly behind his desk, staring down at his fists and trying not to make a fool of himself.

Kazuo watched with interest as they awaited instructions. Nanahara was making a certified effort to look anywhere but at him, and with his hunched shoulders and balled fists, it could have been that he was, indeed, afraid.

Kazuo narrowed his eyes.

'Nanahara,' he said.

Shuya snapped his head up to look at him.

'Yes?' he answered, a little breathlessly.

'Never mind.'

Kazuo turned his back to him so that his smile would go unseen.

He'd seen it again: the attraction. Saw it in his tone, his pupils, his eagerness, and - it was strange for him to care - he saw the light flicker across Nanahara's face, as he was called, and from the apex of Kazuo's chest, a warmth not unlike that which he felt penetrating the Shimizu girl rose within him.

Huh. Kazuo observed his own body with interest. It would appear that, should he ever find need to research into a different kind of intercourse, then physically, at least, he would have no problem with it.

With this in mind for future reference, he supposed he ought to ensure that he remained within Nanahara's emotional radar, to make it easier for himself. He turned back to Shuya and nodded in greeting.

For his own part, Shuya was thoroughly confused. From the moment Mr Hayshida had announced that he would be sharing detention with Kazuo, he had been torn between joy and panic. Joy, at a full hour's opportunity to be alone with him, to satisfy his cravings; and panic, that Kazuo would figure him out in a heartbeat.

Someone like Kazuo wasn't likely to humour his stupid, schoolboy crush if he found out. He'd make himself even more elusive, maybe even release the hounds. (Shuya had done well to avoid confrontation with Mitsuru Numai, and he wanted to keep it that way.)

For Kazuo to abruptly call him by name - his _last _name, so hardly personal, but still his name - sent a jolt shooting through his heart, and he was almost able to convince himself, when he looked up, that Kazuo was watching him with interest.

_Of course he wasn't_, he chided himself. _Kazuo Kiriyama has _less _than no reason to find interest in you. Just survive the hour, and tonight you can bribe Yoshi into letting you have the bedroom for a while. To take care of stuff._

His mouth dry, he swallowed, and as he watched the tendons on Kazuo's neck stand out as he turned to face the window, he thought that he might need quite a long while alone.

Before his thoughts could become more detailed, Mr Hayashida returned.

He handed Shuya a bucket of water. 'Windows, Nanahara.'

'Yes, sir.'

Shuya watched from the corner of his eye as Mr Hayashida turned to Kazuo, and began to tremble.

'K-Kiriyama,' he stammered, 'can you do the rest?'

Kazuo was rather beginning to enjoy the teacher's fear. 'Define "the rest",' he ordered, just to see how he would react. 'Sir,' he added sweetly.

Mr Hayashida clenched his hands to stop them shaking. 'Nanahara will show you,' he said, almost hysterically, walking as quickly as he could to get away from the sinister, spiky-haired Kiriyama boy. He left, and the door shut with a final _snap._

Shuya took a deep breath. 'You shouldn't do that to him,' he said, trying to make his voice as soft and non-confrontational as possible, though he only succeeded to speak so quietly that he was inaudible.

Kazuo tilted his head. 'Excuse me?'

It didn't escape Shuya's notice that, to _him, _Kazuo's voice held none of the threat that it did when he spoke to the teacher, and he was momentarily tempted to drop the subject - but just as the thought crossed his mind, his conscience caught up with him.

He took another deep breath. 'You shouldn't do that to Mr Hayashida,' he said, louder.

Kazuo frowned. 'How do you mean?'

'I mean-' He offloaded the bucket onto the nearest desk and took a beseeching step towards the other man. 'I mean, he's scared of you.'

'Obviously,' said Kazuo.

His satisfaction jarred with Shuya, and he realised with sinking disappointment that he had been romanticising Kazuo with qualities he did not have - qualities along the lines of basic kindness. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling foolish, and made himself plough on.

'I don't - I can't -' He sighed, and tried again. 'I don't know why you'd bother with him. That's all.'

'Hmm.'

Shuya tried to resist becoming aroused by Kazuo's hum. He felt it would be detrimental to the gravity of the conversation if he was to get an erection.

Kazuo tried - and struggled, to his annoyance - to understand Shuya's perspective.

'Can you elaborate?' he asked.

Shuya chewed his lip thoughtfully. Kazuo absentmindedly recalled an article on common symptoms of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, stating that prolonged lip biting can lead to sores and infection. He was doubtful that Nanahara fell under the OCD spectrum. He was probably nervous, Kazuo thought.

'You know how Ryuhei's always picking on Yoshio,' said Shuya eventually, 'even though Yoshio's never done anything to him, or to anyone else?'

Kazuo inclined his head.

'Well... It- it just seems...' He gave up trying to be eloquent. 'I'd have thought that Mr Hayashida wouldn't be worth the hassle.'

'Hassle?'

'Yeah.'

'Explain.'

'Well...' Shuya gestured around him. 'You're in detention right now, and you don't have to be. I'm just surprised.'

'If only you knew, Nanahara,' Kazuo muttered, turning from him.

It bothered him, more than he would have ever admitted, that Nanahara had called him up on his behaviour towards the teacher. Most would have been cowed by witnessing his influence, and would have been wary of him, even vicariously, and while he did not wish for Nanahara to fear him the way he wished for Mr Hayashida, neither did he particularly want a lecture in humanity.

Not from Nanahara.

Shuya frowned. 'Sorry, what did you say? I didn't catch that.'

Kazuo wiped all trace of emotion from his expression before he turned back to him. 'I said, you're right,' he said.

Shuya blinked. 'Huh?'

'You are right.' Kazuo tried for a grin but quickly gave up. 'Hayashida is essentially harmless. I ought not to victimise him. Should I apologise?'

Shuya watched him lie and really, really wanted to believe him.

'You shouldn't if it won't be sincere,' he said quietly, looking away so Kazuo wouldn't see the disappointment that riddled his face. He was disappointed in Kazuo, for his lack of remorse, and he was disappointed in himself, for expecting anything different.

Kazuo saw that Nanahara was feeling something. He was puzzled as to what it was.

'Have I offended you?' he suggested.

Shuya turned back to him. 'Offended?'

'Yes.'

'No. No, I'm not offended.'

Shuya wished that he would stop speaking to him. He felt almost heartbroken, though he knew it was stupid; _he _was an idiot for ever falling for Kazuo in the first place. He _knew _that he was unfeeling. He _knew _that the two of them could never work, even as friends - if only because his own sentiment-driven philosophy could never be compatible with Kazuo's indifference.

They were at opposite ends of the emotional spectrum. Kazuo would only hurt him, and Shuya would only irritate him in return.

Shuya swallowed a lump in his throat and picked up a sponge. He halfheartedly splatted it against the nearest window and, with great sadness, began to wipe the fingerprints and grime from the glass.

Anyone watching Kazuo Kiriyama then would have thought that he was trying to memorise the phonebook for how bored he looked, but his head was rapidly becoming an unfamiliar, unwelcome tangle of many thoughts vying for his attention at once.

He truly did not know what he had done to instill such change in Shuya Nanahara, and it bothered him. It bothered him that Nanahara was distancing himself, when that was the opposite of Kazuo's intentions. It bothered him that Nanahara was not behaving in the way he wanted him to.

It bothered him even more that Nanahara was, without knowing it, getting under his skin.

He's an experiment, Kazuo reminded himself as he watched him ineffectively batting at the windows with a damp sponge.

Shuya jumped when he was tapped on the shoulder. He turned to find himself in close range of Kazuo, who took advantage of Shuya's surprise to gently wrest the sponge from his fingers.

'You're achieving nothing, Nanahara,' said Kazuo.

Now he _did _look offended. Kazuo frowned. It had not sounded like an insult in his head.

'Look.' He gestured to the still-dripping window that Nanahara had just cleaned. 'All the dirt is just gathering down here.'

Shuya blinked several times and tried to connect. 'Yeah,' he said vaguely. 'You're right.'

Kazuo gave him a sharp glance, and wondered - really wondered - what he was thinking.

'For someone so zealous, you are not as easy to read as one may think,' Kazuo remarked, at the same time Shuya said, 'How about you do the windows, and I'll do the rest?'

They looked at one another.

'What?' said Shuya.

'Excuse me?' said Kazuo.

'What did you say?'

'I was suggesting the same thing,' he said smoothly. He jerked his head towards the windows. 'I'll do these.'

_That isn't what you said, _accused Shuya in his frown.

Kazuo smiled. _Try me, _it said.

Shuya was momentarily distracted by Kazuo's teeth. He imagined them biting down on his lips, his neck. He imagined biting down on _his _neck, and unconsciously licked his lips.

He cleared his throat.

'So,' he said loudly, 'what're you up to this weekend?'

Kazuo looked genuinely taken aback. 'Why do you ask?'

Shuya blinked, affronted. 'I'm just asking,' he said defensively.

'What kind of an answer is that?'

'What?'

'I am _aware _that you are "just asking",' he said, drawing quotation marks with his fingers, 'but I fail to see how my weekend plans should be of any interest to you. Unless, of course,' he added as an afterthought, 'you intend to make yourself a _part_ of my weekend plans.'

Nanahara's reaction was instantaneous. Colour rushed to his cheeks, his gaze descended straight to the ground, and he shuffled with unbearable awkwardness.

Kazuo liked to be liked. Of _course _he did - affection of any kind meant that a person was inclined (or _obliged,_ even) to do his bidding. It was how he avoided hassle at school, to have his followers-cum-admirers as his protection against the insignificant masses. It was how he was still taking advantage of the Shimizu girl, and the experience with which she provided him. And while he recognised a distinct difference between the way his "family" liked him and the way _she_ liked him, to him, the difference was negligible; being liked was a means to a hassle-free end.

Which left him no closer to beginning to explain to himself why he particularly enjoyed Nanahara's affection. He hadn't even offered to make himself useful yet, as she had. It was baffling.

Shuya, in turn, torn between resignation and denial, threw caution to the wind.

'Can't I be?' he said, in as casual a manner as he was able.

For the second time in as many minutes, Kazuo was surprised.

'Part of my plans?' he clarified.

Shuya nodded. Kazuo shrugged.

'Maybe,' he said, keeping his anticipation and - dare he say it - _satisfaction_ at bay, in place of indifference.

Shuya tried not to be hurt. 'Sure,' he said.

Silence ensued. Shuya fidgeted and blushed and descended into mortal embarrassment, to which the other man was seemingly oblivious.

'So if you won't say what you're up to _this _weekend,' he blurted eventually, 'what did you get up to _last _weekend?'

Kazuo paused. 'Is this smalltalk, Nanahara?'

'Yeah. It's smalltalk. Making polite conversation. Y'know?'

'Hmm.'

There it was again. The hum. The fucking hum. Before Shuya's thoughts could, once again, turn X-rated, Kazuo spoke:

'Smalltalk is a purely phatic function, yes?'

'Huh?' said Shuya intelligently.

'Smalltalk,' said Kazuo patiently, 'is an entirely phatic mode of conversation. Is that right?'

'I don't even know what you're saying right now.'

Kazuo sighed. 'It seems to me that communication has no need for any purpose other than transaction. That's the exchange of information from one person to another,' he explained, in answer to Shuya's visible confusion.

'I know what a transaction is,' said Shuya, 'but I don't agree with you.'

'Hmm?'

_Stop fucking humming_

'No, I don't,' he said calmly as his heart squeezed and his hands sweated and his eyes undressed the man before him. 'People make friends when they communicate. Not always,' he added, 'but sometimes.'

Kazuo blinked. 'You aren't making a lot of sense, Nanahara.'

'I mean,' said Shuya, mentally searching for words fancy enough to impress the ever-eloquent Kazuo Kiriyama, 'yeah, information is important, but information doesn't build relationships-'

'No, it doesn't. You are right.'

Kazuo thought it best to stop him before he accidentally blundered into the exception to his own conversational derision.

The exception being, conversely, Nanahara himself.

Kazuo wondered briefly why Nanahara's rambling was not irksome to him, why it did not make him want to gag him as it often did when it was Sho or Mitsuru doing the incessant chattering, but before he could come to any conclusions he found himself accepting Nanahara's earlier offer.

'Sorry, what?'

'Your offer of sharing your company this weekend.'

Stunned into silence, Shuya wondered if Kazuo had lost his mind.

'You - you're sure?' he said stupidly. 'I - I mean - if you've got work, or if you're spending time with Hiro, then- then I wouldn't want... I wouldn't want to...' He tailed off, feeling more stupid with each word that fell from his mouth.

Kazuo blinked. '"Hiro"?'

'Hiro? Hirono.' Shuya was surprised that he needed to explain.

'Ah.' Kazuo paused, before he fixed Shuya with a sharp gaze. 'Why would I forego your company in favour of hers?'

'You kidding?' Shuya blurted, with more feeling than he meant. 'She's _your _girlfriend, isn't she?'

'Is she?' asked Kazuo with mild surprise.

_'Isn't _she?'

He shrugged. 'It isn't a topic that has come under discussion.'

Shuya wanted to ask what she was to him. He wanted to know how he made her feel - if she made him feel at all. He wanted to delight and revel in the knowledge that Kazuo wanted - or, at least, didn't _not _want - to spend time with him more than he did with her.

He settled for inviting him to the movies on Saturday night.

'There's that new horror film out,' he suggested. 'Could be decent.'

Kazuo nodded once. 'Good. Be at the theatre at seven.'

With that, he turned his back and began to clean the windows with the precision and efficiency of a professional.

Shuya blinked several times, feeling many different things, and eventually settling for something along the lines of delight.

* * *

So I can't stand writers who beg people for reviews, but I will say this: reviews make me happier than Shuya in the middle of a Kazuo-centric wet dream.


	7. Chapter 6: Going Out

Time passed with an aching kind of slowness.

At least, that was how it seemed to Shuya. In the days between their detention and their evening out, the space between himself and Kazuo Kiriyama was heavy with potential; to Shuya, the shared nods when they passed in the corridors sparked a heat so intense that his vision went white for a minute, and even though the two had not spoken since, Shuya imagined that the warm, magical feeling was reciprocal.

The previous afternoon, when he had been feeling particularly poetic, he tried to explain this to Shinji.

He had taken one look at Shuya and asked when he planned to regain a pair of testicles and a competent grasp on reality.

'Nice work getting Kiriyama out on a date, though,' he'd added, impressed despite Shuya's half-hearted denial that it was any sort of thing.

'We're just watching a movie!' he'd said. He said it again as he got ready to go.

'It's just a movie,' he told himself severely. 'Don't go getting ideas. It isn't fair on him.'

Pff. Who ever said anything about _fair. _Shuya thought best not to dwell on it.

'I wonder if he prefers black or red,' he mused. He stood in his room, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and holding a shirt in each hand. Lifting the black one to his torso, he checked himself in the mirror.

'Too dark, too dark,' he muttered, trying the red one instead, squashing the voice of Reasonable-Shuya telling him that his clothing could not be less relevant. He was going out - in the traditional sense of the word - with a friend (could he call him a friend yet? Probably not, though he squashed _that _voice as well) and what he wore did not matter. He needed to focus on what was important.

Him. And Kazuo. In a darkened room. Alone.

'Alone with a couple hundred other people,' he reminded himself, 'with screaming and blood and gore in the background. Good going, Shu,' he mumbled, wildly tempted (not for the first time) to call the whole thing off.

He was grounded back to normality with the knowledge that he had no way of calling anything off.

In fact, short of starting a fight with the aspiring yakuza that hung around the back of the orphanage and hoping that he would come to his rescue, Shuya had no way of getting hold of Kazuo at all.

It struck him that the option of "pulling out" could work both ways. He doubted that Kazuo would feel terribly guilty about standing him up, should something more interesting have come up.

Paranoia covered him like a shroud, and as his lip began to bleed from all his chewing, he tried to be rational.

'He'll be there,' he told himself unconvincingly. 'He said he would. He said-' He broke off, and frowned. 'What _did _he say?'

'Yeah, Shu, what did he say?'

Shuya dropped both shirts. He whirled around to find Yoshitoki leaning against the doorway, amusement plastered across his little face. 'And who's this _he _you're banging on about? Or-' He broke off, sniggering, 'should I rethink my choice of words? Who you're _banging _is up to you, after all.' Amid his laughter, two small girls walked past, watching the older boys with wide eyes.

'Yoshi,' said Shuya lowly, 'keep your voice down.'

'What for?' he laughed, coming into the room and kicking the door shut behind him. Shuya was grateful to him for that, at least.

He opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Yoshitoki chattered in the interim.

'...and Ms Ryoko says to tell you that dinner's going to be later tonight, because baby Asuka's gone and swallowed some toilet cleaner and she won't be back from hospital for-'

'I'm gay.'

'-a few hours at least.' Yoshi shook his head with a sigh, before freezing, an odd look on his face. 'What did you say?'

Shuya winced.

Yoshitoki's face dropped in surprise. 'You were serious? Like, before? Jeez, I was taking the piss, man, I-'

_'Yoshi, please!' _whispered Shuya with desperation. He dropped to the floor and held out his hands, physically imploring his friend to understand in a way that Yoshitoki had never seen. His whole body seemed to be bent over - from his hunched spine to his downturned lips - as if he was physically weighed down from the pressure and fear of being outed and despised.

'Please,' he begged, 'please, _please _don't hate me, Yoshi. I - I couldn't stand it if you-' He swallowed, and kept his gaze down at Yoshitoki's feet, too lousy and unworthy to meet his friend's eye.

Silence stretched between the two men, punctuated by Shuya's erratic breathing as he felt the ghost of his friendship with Yoshitoki fill the gap between them.

He's going to despise me, Shuya realised.

A high, pained, animalistic whine pierced the room, and it took a moment for Shuya to realise it had come from him.

'Just don't hate me,' he said eventually, broken. 'Please. Please. Oh, God, please.'

He couldn't think of anything else to say. He was found out. However Yoshioki would react was out of his hands. He was going to abandon him, tell Ms Ryoko, tell Mr Hayashida, the rest of their class, _everyone-_

Feeling the world crumble under his knees, Shuya didn't notice footsteps approaching him. Only when a warm hand was placed on his shoulder did he look up, into Yoshitoki's boyish face.

'Nanahara,' he said, 'stop acting like I'm calling the police on you.' He shook him, none-too-gently. 'You're crumpling your shirts.'

In his dull panic, he had knelt on both his choices of clothing. He stood, lightheaded and numb, and picked up the shirts. He met Yoshi's eyes hesitantly.

Yoshitoki chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. 'The red,' he said.

Shuya blinked. 'Red,' he said faintly.

'Yes,' confirmed Yoshitoki. 'Red. The red shirt. In your left hand.'

Shuya looked down, almost surprised to find that his statement was accurate.

'Put it on, Nanahara. Your chest is a distraction.'

He fumbled to pull it on fast enough. He mumbled apologies in Yoshitoki's direction as he fiddled with the buttons.

'What've you got to be sorry for?' he asked incredulously.

Shuya rubbed the back of his neck, unable to meet his eye. 'Just... _you _know,' he muttered.

'You're being really vague, Shu,' he said, with a laugh. 'I don't really know anything.'

'I _said-'_

'You said that you're gay.' Whether consciously or unconsciously, Yoshitoki lowered his voice to little more than a whisper as he spoke the last word - and yet, he didn't say it with anything resembling disgust. To Shuya, it felt as if his friend was protecting him.

He sagged, with a curious mixture of relief and tension. 'And you're - I mean - you're okay? Do you care?'

Yoshitoki shrugged. 'More women for me.' He paused, and pulled a face. 'More women for _Mim, _I should say. Jeez, what will your fanclub think? I bet he'll get them all, the bastard.'

He turned his back, and with no hesitation or awkwardness, changed out of his uniform and into a pair of jeans.

'Does he know?' he asked casually, turning back to Shuya, shirtless and not self-conscious.

Shuya wondered if he was doing it deliberately. Getting changed in front of him just to prove how little he cared - or, indeed, if he cared so little that it didn't even cross his mind to worry about appearing semi-dressed in front of a _shirtlifter_, the way some guys were around Sho in the changing rooms.

'Yeah,' he said. 'Mim clocked me.'

'Well, if anyone was going to guess, it was always going to be him.' Yoshi grinned, and shook his head affectionately. 'What about Sugi?'

Shuya shook his head. 'Just you and Mim.'

'And we only know by accident.'

He scratched his nose. 'Something like that.'

Yoshi foraged around for a shirt, and pulled it over his head. Shuya watched his small muscles flex as he moved, and felt a wave of relief that, with Yoshitoki, attraction was unlikely to be a problem, the way it had almost been when Shinji breathed on him.

Stupid minty Shinji.

'So who _is _this "he" you were talking about?'

Shuya pushed Shinji from his mind to ask Yoshitoki not to freak out.

'Why would I freak out?'

Shuya took a deep breath. 'I'm meeting up with Kazuo tonight.'

Yoshitoki blinked. 'Kiriyama? What, like, a date?'

_'No, _not a date.' He pulled his fingers through his hair agitatedly. 'Chance would be a fine thing,' he added bitterly. 'He's going out with Hirono, isn't he?'

'I think "going out" might be too strong.'

'Well, yes,' he admitted, 'but I don't want to assume anything. He might really like her.'

'Huh.' Yoshitoki exhaled. 'Somehow, I doubt it.'

'Me too, but that isn't the point.' Shuya pulled a sweater over his head. 'If he doesn't like her, then why would he ever like-' He stopped, and swallowed. He felt foolish, voicing thoughts that had been repressed and ignored, and he didn't like the logic that they brought to his muddled sense of reality.

'Why would he ever like - who?'

Shuya sighed, drooping his head. 'Me.'

Yoshitoki scratched his head uncomfortably. 'You know I can't give relationship advice,' he said, 'but even to me it seems kind of early to be worrying about whether or not he likes you.'

He looked up. 'How do you mean?'

'I mean-' He broke off with a frown, and tried again. 'Go and meet him. No one ever went from being strangers to dating without there being something in between.'

'Kazuo and Hirono did,' muttered Shuya jealously.

'And he's obviously using her,' said Yoshitoki bluntly. 'And, yeah, you might not be his type, but for God's sake, you can't stress about that until he _tells _you that you're not his type. And maybe,' he added with a shrug, 'I dunno - maybe you _are _his type. He doesn't seem to have much of a preference for anything, so already you're in with a chance.'

'Yeah.' Shuya caught himself biting his lip and forced himself to stop. 'Maybe I am.' He checked his watch.

'I need to go,' he said.

'Good luck. And remember - going past third base before at least the second date makes you a slut. Remember that time Mim went out with Yoshimi, and he-'

'Shut up.' Taking a deep breath, he spread his arms and nervously asked Yoshitoki for his approval.

'You look fine,' he said dismissively. 'Now _go.'_

He went.

At 6:56PM he arrived, and leaned against a wall to wait, actively practicing a normal breathing rate and kicking a loose chip of pavement between his feet. Four minutes later, a pair of loafers walked into his line of vision. He looked up.

'Nanahara,' greeted Kazuo.

Shuya smiled softly, feeling his spirit soar at knowing that he, Shuya Nanahara, was not the worst person with whom Kazuo Kiriyama could spend his Saturday night. 'So formal?'

'As always.' He glanced around at the steady trickle of people walking out of the theatre in twos and threes and fours, discussing the movie they had just seen with animated disgust. They caught snippets of conversation as they walked to stand in line at the counter.

'- godawful acting - I mean, _jeez, _what was the director _thinking-' _said a young man with thick glasses and a slogan T-shirt.

'- talk about em_barrassing_-' said a girl to the boy she was with, clutching an enormous, half-eaten tub of popcorn to her chest.

'-special effects my ass-' said another, with long hair and metal piercings in every nameable part of her face.

Shuya caught Kazuo's eye.

'Reckon they've just seen our movie?'

'It can be assumed.'

Minutes later, as they were seated side by side in the darkened room, Shuya was almost painfully aware of their proximity.

Where Kazuo's hand rested casually on the armrest, the skin of Shuya's leg, twitching mere inches from his hand, felt at once unbearably hot and uncomfortably cold.

Briefly, he considered the chances of Kazuo's hand slipping onto his thigh, and as his jeans tightened around the crotch area, he was glad of the darkness that surrounded them.

Though the air was alive with the quiet buzz of conversation, Shuya and Kazuo did not speak.

Kazuo, for his part, was too concerned to engage - or to _pretend _to engage - and he had good reason to be.

Just hours earlier, he had been presented with two separate invitations. One from Mitsuru Numai, the other from Hirono. (Needless to say, they were very different propositions.)

Mitsuru had alerted him to a challenge, from a new yakuza leader, who had apparently heard of the Kiriyama kid's reputation, and wished for what he euphemistically called a _friendly gathering._

Hirono had invited him to a private viewing of her new underwear collection.

Kazuo himself was indifferent to all three of his options. He did not want to prove his physical prowess to an arrogant yakuza newbie; he did not want to abide more hours of Shimizu's growing clinginess; and he especially did not want to be confined to a dark, claustrophobic room, surrounded by dozens of people as he endured a poor excuse for an evening's entertainment.

And yet, there he was, with no greater understanding of why he was there than the people he had turned down to be there. As the adverts started up, showering neon lights onto the faces of everyone in the room, he glanced down at his hand. As he watched, his fingers twitched almost imperceptibly, and he momentarily entertained the notion of moving his hand to rest on Nanahara's leg. Just to see how he would react, of course.

As he mused, Nanahara abruptly cleared his throat and crossed his legs. Kazuo watched out of the corner of his eye with interest at his clear discomfort, and as he glanced further down, he cursed the shadow of the seat in front for making it impossible to see whether or not Nanahara was sporting an erection.

_Maybe, _he thought, observing his uncomfortable shuffling. He resolved to attempt physical contact at some point in the near future. For research purposes.

When the credits eventually rolled and the lights came up, and people began to stand and stretch and fumble under their seats for their jackets, he took action.

So smoothly that it could have been an accident, Kazuo stumbled, and tripped into Nanahara's chest.

'S-sorry!' he stammered, straightening up and brushing at Nanahara's torso, the way he sometimes saw women do to men they liked. 'Forgive me. Please.' Job done, he lowered his hands, and observed.

He had felt the tensed muscles in his stomach, heard the sharp intake of breath, and as Kazuo's touch seeped through the layers of material and skin and tissue and flesh to burn handprints onto Shuya's heart, he saw the outline of his erection, pressed against the tightened denim.

Satisfied, he smiled. For Nanahara's benefit, he attempted the dopey, apologetic grin that Nanahara himself so often frequented.

In turn, Shuya frowned. That wasn't like Kazuo. He didn't _trip,_ or _stammer, _or _apologise, _or _smile_ - so what was he playing at?

All he knew for sure was that, for whatever reason, there had been half a second where Kazuo's body had been pressed against his own, and that half a second was more memorable, and left a greater impression on him, than the whole two hours' sorry excuse for a horror film that he had just seen.

'It wasn't a date,' he told himself as he jerked himself off frantically in the bathroom when he got home. 'Not a date. Not a date. Not a-'

'Nanahara,' shouted Yoshitoki from the other side of the door, 'get on with it. I need to take a leak.'

Shuya panicked.

'Not a date!' he blurted, rapidly losing his erection.

'Whatever, bro. Hurry up.'

They didn't exchange more than polite greetings when they saw one another at school, but two days after their not-date, Kazuo broke up with Hirono.

The official story was a mutual split, but one look at Hirono in class told otherwise. She isolated herself from her classmates - even Mitsuko - to the point where the likes of Megumi Eto and Kaori Minami could be overheard actively enjoying the peace that a depressed Hirono Shimizu enabled.

'She must be really cut up,' Yoshitoki whispered to Shuya during math class, nodding at her hunched form. 'She's not been a bitch for at least twenty minutes.'

Shuya - ever the optimist - had always tried to see Hirono for who she was outside of her association with Mitsuko Souma, and it unsettled him, to see her so disturbed - and yet, at the same time, he could not help but be just a little glad. As Shinji had tastelessly announced: 'The coast is clear. Full steam ahead, spunk monkey.'

Kazuo, in turn, was as impassive as ever. Queries into the cause of their separation were met with silence, followed by a neutral, 'Leave it.'

'But _Kazuo-kun,' _whined Sho in his ear as they waited in line at lunch break, 'won't you at least tell _me _what she did?'

He shrugged. 'She didn't do anything.'

Sho's eyes adopted a glint that Kazuo recognised, and didn't particularly like. 'I find it hard to believe that she did _nothing,'_ he purred, lifting his hand to rest on Kazuo's shoulder with practiced nonchalance.

It crossed Kazuo's mind that Mitsuru, had he been present, would have perceived Sho's actions as a shootable offence. He himself didn't care about the inappropriate advances as much as he cared about the invasion of his personal space. He brushed the hand away.

'I grew bored of her,' he said cooly.

'Then there must have been _something _she wasn't doing right,' Sho persisted. 'Maybe in the - ahem - bedroom department?' He winked.

You are repugnant, Kazuo thought.

'No, her bedroom performance cannot be criticised,' he said. 'I grew bored of her. That is all.'

Minutes later, in the face of Sho's relentless interrogation, Kazuo demonstrated a rare display of annoyance in abandoning his meal in favour of walking out of the lunch hall and away from the irksome, bouffant-haired fool that was Sho Tsukioka.

The eyes of his entire class watched with hesitant interest as he left, as if they feared that the doors of Kazuo's fury had been opened, and that the full extent of his newfound wrath would be unleashed upon them all if he caught them looking.

As if he was simply trying to be contrary, Kazuo was, in fact, completely calm, and were it not for Sho's loud gasps of offence resounding in his wake, he could have been walking from one lesson to the next.

He reached the doorway, and graciously held the door open for none other than Hirono herself, approaching from the hallway and walking alone. She blinked up at him warily, pink-eyed and pale, and in the people pretending not to be watching them, she instilled a kind of pity that was not often felt for her.

'Shimizu,' said Kazuo, with a polite nod.

He saw no reason for a decline in civil standards - and yet, a part of him was unsurprised when she sobbed once, before she clenched her dominant hand into a fist and struck him in the jaw.

He could have stopped her: he decided against it. He owed her that much, at least.

For reasons he could not fathom, the voice telling him gently to let her be angry was that of Nanahara.

It was infuriating. Kazuo came to the conclusion that he most certainly did_ not_ appreciate the shadow of humanity that Nanahara seemed to trigger in him - and yet, even as he reached his conclusion, it did not stop him from seeking him out as he spared the hall a final glance - and it _especially_ did not stop an irrational frown from marring his mask of indifference upon seeing Nanahara caught up in conversation with the female class representative, instead of watching the bruise began to blacken Kazuo's face, as the rest of the room did.

In his defence, Shuya was caught up in a conversation of which he really, really did not wish to be a part.

Yukie sat next to him, closer than was considered respectable, and rested her cheek daintily on her hand. 'So, Haruka and I are being considered for the Kagawa prefecture junior volleyball team,' she said brightly. 'If we get in, will you come watch us play?'

'Of course,' he said, mouth full. He swallowed, and pointed at the door with his fork. 'Did Hirono just punch Kiriyama?'

'Did she?' Yukie spared Hirono a glance, standing alone at the back of the lunch queue, and shrugged. 'I didn't see. So anyway,' she continued, determined for him to not be distracted, 'I wondered if you wanted to catch a movie this weekend?'

Shuya gazed vacantly at the place Kazuo had been standing. He hadn't seen him leave, and he felt a stab of something he couldn't name - a curious sensation somewhere between desire and self-pity - rise in his chest.

He suddenly remembered that he was mid-conversation.

'Huh?' he said.

Yukie gave Shuya a look that made him feel about an inch tall.

'I asked if you wanted to watch a movie this weekend. With me.'

'M-movie?' He stuffed more food into his mouth and chewed quickly, intent on finding Kazuo and - and he hadn't thought of what he was going to do after that.

'Slow down, Shu.' Yukie's laugh pierced the layer of mist that clouded his thoughts. 'You'll get heartburn if you eat too quickly.'

'Oh.' He looked down at his plate. 'Yeah, I guess,' he said sheepishly.

'So anyway,' she prompted, unwilling to let the subject drop. 'Do you want to catch a movie?'

'I-'

'How about that new horror film? I've heard it's pretty good,' she interrupted.

'Oh, I've alre-'

'How about Saturday?'

'Yukie-'

'Seven?'

'Please-'

'Great!' she said, beaming. 'I'll get the popcorn.'

'Yukie,' said Shuya firmly, 'thank you for the offer, but-'

'Oh, I know,' she said airily, 'I've wanted to ask you for ages, but I was - oh, it's embarrassing - I was waiting for _you _to ask _me.' _She laughed. 'Isn't that silly? After all - what happened to feminism!'

To a soundtrack of Yukie's tinkling laugh, Shuya caught up with what was happening.

_I need to distract her, _he thought.

'I've already seen that new horror film,' he said loudly.

A snort emanated from somewhere behind him. 'How very fucking _brave _of you, Nanahara,' muttered Hirono spitefully as she slouched past, a tray clutched in her hands.

Shuya ignored her. 'Thank you for asking me, Yukie, but you should go with someone else if you want to see it.'

'Oh.' She blinked, momentarily taken aback, before her smile returned. 'Never mind! I hate horror movies anyway. How about dinner? Why don't you take me to that French place in the city? I've been dying to try it out.'

Shuya was thoroughly puzzled.

'Where's this come from, Yukie?' he asked.

'Well, I...' She broke off, blushing, and lowered her voice to barely above a whisper, forcing Shuya to lean in to hear her. 'All the drama with Hirono and Kiriyama - it was quite unexpected, right?'

He felt distinctly uneasy. 'Yes, it was.'

'Well, it- it got me thinking, that maybe _they _didn't work out, because they were so badly-suited. Don't you think?'

'I hadn't thought about it,' Shuya lied.

'Well, they were - and then _that _got me thinking, that there's someone out there for her, who _is _suited for her.'

They both glanced furtively at Hirono Shimizu, stabbing moodily at a piece of chicken.

'Like - a soulmate?' asked Shuya, making a certified effort for his voice to not betray his skepticism.

Yukie nodded enthusiastically. 'Exactly!'

'I don't...' He pinched the bridge of his nose. 'I don't see where you're going with this,' he muttered.

'In Greek mythology, it is said that humans were created with four arms, four legs and two heads,' sighed Yukie, 'and Zeus cut them all in half because he was afraid of their power.'

Shuya was utterly baffled. He lowered his cutlery.

'It is said,' she continued, 'that humans are destined to spend their lives searching for the other half of their body.'

Realisation hit Shuya like a steam train.

'Shit,' he said.

Yukie frowned. 'Excuse me?'

'Nothing. Sorry.'

_Shit, _thought Shuya. _I see where this is going. Shit. Fuck. Shitfuck._

'Uh, Yukie,' he said uncomfortably, 'I don't know that-'

'There _is_ someone out there for everyone!'

'Yeah, okay, but-'

'If I believe in nothing else, I believe that!'

_'Good, _but-'

'You agree?' Her delight would have been contagious, were Shuya less disconcerted.

She went on. 'She's sad now, but one day she'll find her Prince Charming, and he'll be _nothing _like Kiriyama-'

'Kiriryama's okay,' he said reflexively. 'He's a good guy.'

Yukie jerked her head to the sullen, isolated Hirono. 'Does that look like the work of a "good guy" to you?'

'We don't know what happened between them,' he said through gritted teeth, fighting the urge to shout in unadulterated, primal frustration.

He had no idea what was up with her. He _liked _her - and _had _liked her. The female class representative was, indeed, quite a girl, from anyone's perspective; intelligent, bold, and charismatic, and exactly the kind of woman who would, one day, go on to become the first female Prime Minister. It was no secret that she was a willful young woman; endlessly stubborn, it was sometimes said (never to her face) that Yukie Utsumie would argue the nonexistence of God to God Himself until He gave up.

Why she was focusing the full extent of her manipulation onto _him _was a mystery.

'As I was saying,' she said, disregarding his comment, 'she _will _find her Mr Right - but I've already found mine.' She ducked her head as she blushed, and glanced at him, gauging his reaction from under her eyelashes.

Shuya felt sick.

'Oh,' he said weakly.

'Shuya...' She slid a hand from her lap to rest gently on his own, clenched tightly on the table. 'I've liked you for a really, really long time.'

He gulped.

'And all this with Hirono and Kiriyama...' She sighed. 'It got me thinking that - that _I _don't _want _to wait for my Prince Charming, when he's already here.' She traced his white knuckles delicately with her fingertips, oblivious to his discomfort.

From the other end of the long table, Shinji and Yoshitoki exchanged a glance.

'I think it may be time to help a bro out,' Shinji muttered. Yoshitoki nodded, and moved to where they were sitting.

'Hey, Shu,' he said, and they turned to face him. Yukie frowned.

'We're headed to the basketball court, practice some shots,' said Shinji, joining him. 'You coming?'

Shuya made to stand, relief radiating off of him in palpable waves. 'Yes ple-'

'Wait,' interrupted Yukie, with a touch of desperation. 'I- I promise I won't keep you long,' she said to Shuya, whose twisted, grating irritation immediately became entangled with a guilt that annoyed him even more; why _should _he feel guilty? He didn't _have _to remain in that conversation if he didn't want to - right?

It looked like Yukie was not giving him a choice. He sank, and resigned himself to trouble.

Shinji clapped Shuya on the shoulder.

'Hurry up,' he said pointedly. 'We're waiting on you, quarterback.'

'Wrong game, dumbass.'

'I'm making a point, Yoshi.'

Shuya watched their retreating backs, and felt a hopeless kind of desperation.

_How is it, _he thought, _that talking to a girl could be less appealing than the idea of offering sexual favours to Mr Ina in exchange for coming top?_

He winced. Perhaps he ought to rethink his mental images.

Yukie watched Shuya wince, and was consumed with a tender desire to make him better; whatever was hurting him, or making him sad, she wanted to take it away.

'Shuya,' she said softly, and his eyes hesitated to meet hers. 'Do you remember that time you found me in the sports cupboard?'

He blinked.

He _did _remember, but he had not thought about it for quite some time.

It was in seventh grade. He had gone to the sports hall one recess to collect the bag of softball gloves for after-school club, and just as he approached the cupboard, it sniffed.

He paused, his hand hovering over the handle, and he wondered if he was hearing things when - _yes _- there it was, again. A sniff, and a small, wrenching sob. The cupboard was crying.

It was very puzzling.

He opened the door, and found himself looking down on a small, shaking bundle of girl, her arms wrapped around her knees, and two damp patches around the hem of her skirt where she wept onto it, surrounded by basketballs and hockey sticks and the lingering odour of sweat.

Instinctively he knelt, and rested a hand gently on her shoulder. 'Hey, hey,' he said softly. 'What're you doing in here?'

She raised her head, and he started.

_'Yukie?'_

It was a significant change from how he was used to her. Even then, Yukie Utsumie was a force to be reckoned with, and it was nothing short of scary to see her, blotchy and red-eyed and so very _small._

Shuya didn't like it.

He joined her in the poky cupboard, and slid his hand to wrap firmly around her shoulders. She looked surprised for a moment, and then her face crumpled.

'Sh- Shuya,' she sobbed, clapping her hands to cover her face.

He tightened his hold on her, and rubbed her arm in what he hoped was a comforting manner. 'If you want to talk, I promise I won't tell anyone,' he said.

She cried. He rubbed her arm, and waited.

Eventually, she quieted. She looked up at him, and gave him a watery smile.

'Sorry about...' She sniffed, and gestured at herself. He shook his head.

'Don't be.'

'I must look a mess,' she mumbled, wiping her eyes roughly with her knuckles. He caught her by the wrists.

'You look fine,' he lied soothingly. He lowered her hands to her lap, and resumed his arm-rubbing. 'Do you want to tell me what's wrong?' he asked quietly. She laughed.

'No. It's embarrassing.'

'Hey,' he protested, giving her a squeeze. 'You don't have to be embarrassed. This is _me. _I do more embarrassing stuff in half an hour than most people do in their whole life.'

She laughed, and with a wry grin, said two words:

'Girl stuff.'

Shuya, twelve years old and utterly oblivious, blinked. 'Huh?' he said gormlessly. 'Like makeup? That sort of stuff?'

She looked at him as if he was being very, very slow. It took Shuya a long time to cotton on.

'Oh,' he said.

The cupboard became, at once, an incredibly uncomfortable place to be.

'Um,' he said awkwardly, 'sorry about that.'

Shuya cleared the image from his head and refocused his attention to the girl sitting next to him. A couple of years older, slimmer, more intelligent and more sure of what she wanted than the girl crying in the sports cupboard, but still the same girl, and Shuya wondered what had made her into what Shinji would undoubtedly call a "psycho-bitch".

Shuya scolded himself for thinking that, and resolved to give her a chance.

'What is it that you want_, _Yukie?' he asked evenly.

She smiled, and it struck him briefly how pretty she was.

_If she was my type, _he thought, _I probably-_

He stopped.

_She's a girl, not an object. Stop being a douche._

He didn't know whether Shinji was rubbing off on him or if his inner asshole was just making an appearance in the face of discomfort.

She spoke before his thoughts could tangent any further.

'I want to be happy,' she said simply. 'And you could make me very happy, Shu - and I hope it's not presumptious to say, that I think I could make _you _happy too.' Her smile was so honest, and so pure, that for a moment, Shuya believed her. 'When you found me in the cupboard - it seems so silly, you didn't even _do _anything - but you made me feel okay when I wasn't okay. And I want to do the same for you, Shu. I know I can.'

He sighed. 'I dunno, Yukie.'

Her breathing quickened. 'What do you mean?' she asked, panicked.

'I mean...' He kneaded his eyes with his knuckles, and just as he had done to her years previously, she gently pulled his wrists away. The tenderness with which she cared for him struck him with all its force in that moment, and he felt like shit.

He looked her in the eye. 'I'm not good for you, Yukie. And I'm flattered - really, really flattered - but I'm- I'm just not...' He tailed off.

She blinked, hurt stabbing across her pretty face.

'I see,' she said quietly.

Guilt ripped through Shuya like a bullet. 'That - that doesn't mean I don't like _you!' _he blurted. 'You're really great, honestly - any guy would _kill_ to be with you-'

Her lip wobbled. 'Then why don't _you _want to be with me?'

'I'm - it's - it's not _you, _Yukie-'

'"It's not you, it's me"? Is that what you're saying? Oh, Shuya...' She turned, and wiped her eyes. 'I thought you were better than that,' she sniffed. 'I really did.'

_How, _Shuya thought, _the ever-living fuck did this happen_

'Yukie, please,' he said desperately, noticing in his peripheral that the two of them were attracting rather a lot of attention. 'Please, don't- don't cry - let's watch the movie, I don't mind seeing it again, really, I-'

'Don't.' With a last sniff, she straightened up and turned to him defiantly. 'You can't do this to girls,' she said, loudly and clearly.

'Yukie - _please-'_

Tears streamed down her cheeks, and as her friends noticed her distress and came rushing to her aid, she looked down at Shuya and said, with an air of finality:

'I hope, one day, someone does to you what you've done to me. I hope you feel as bad as I feel, and I hope that you'll regret doing this to me.'

With that she turned, and with her head held high, despite her tear-stained eyes and skin, she marched out of the dining hall with all the poise and dignity that had always been associated with the female class representative. Her friends scurried in her wake, offering tissues and chocolate and a movie night to make everything better.

Feeling the weight of hatred penetrating his body from all sides, projected from the eyes of the dozen or so people watching who only saw a cruel rejection, Shuya bent over his meal, red-faced and humiliated and wondering what he had done to deserve being made into a villain.

* * *

I'd like it to be known that I really love canon Yukie - but this sure as hell ain't canon, and someone's gotta be the bad guy.

Also- out of Shu and Kazuo, who do you reckon would top? I think you know what I mean, you dirty, dirty readers.


	8. Chapter 7: Quarantined

Kazuo stood at the bottom of a large, leafy oak, and looked up.

'Nanahara,' he said, 'it seems an obvious question, but why are you in a tree?'

Shuya peered down.

It _was _an obvious question, but not one that he expected to be asked. Perhaps arrogantly, he had assumed that he would not be found, for anyone _to_ ask. At least, so he hoped.

He didn't want to be found. Yukie saw to that.

Barely half an hour after the scene in the lunch hall, the whispers and stares had begun. By the end of the day, no one was bothering to whisper anymore, and the reputation of the popular, easygoing, charming Wild Seven was rapidly turning sour.

As much as he didn't want to admit it, the rumours upset him enormously - more so than feeling, for the first time, that no one liked him. With his classmates being fickle teenagers, it could be said in their defence that their dislike, at least, was genuine. None of them could be accused of playing for the cameras.

'He led her on,' someone whispered.

'I heard he took her virginity,' whispered someone else.

'Just that? _I _heard she didn't even _want _it,' whispered another.

Shuya felt hollow.

'There's nothing I can do to redeem myself,' he said privately to Yoshitoki. 'Everyone's siding with Yukie.'

'Why? Because she's a girl?'

He shrugged. 'Probably. God, I don't know. I must've really pissed someone off in a past life.'

Lies followed Shuya like the plague, and common opinion was in favour of Yukie who, amid her sniffing and mournful lip-chewing, severely regretted things ever getting out of hand.

'I just wanted him to feel bad,' she hissed, agonised, to Haruka. 'I never wanted him to be accused of - you know - _rape. _He _isn't like that!'_

Had Shuya been privy to Yukie's guilt, he would have bitterly responded with something along the lines of, 'I'm glad someone knows it.'

Things being as they were, he was, most of all, overwhelmingly sad. For the first day or so, he kept his head down and stayed close to his friends - most of whom, of course, never believed for a second that he had done wrong - but after that, he distanced himself from even the people closest to him.

He said it was for their benefit.

'Look,' he said, amid their protests, 'people are turning against you as well. You're getting in shit just for being _seen _with me. Someone semi-important might find out, and whatever trouble I'm in will just be shared out with any associates.'

'You do talk some shit,' snapped Shinji, actively angry at Yukie despite Shuya's half-hearted protestations.

'Not how I would have put it,' said Hiroki, 'but he makes a good point. We know you didn't do anything, Shu. I really think you should just hang in there until it blows over.'

'I can't _hang in there, _Sugi,' said Shuya through gritted teeth. 'They're saying I - fuck...' He pulled at his hair agitatedly. _'You _know what they're saying,' he muttered. 'They're saying it, and they've said it, and there's nothing I can do about it.'

Yoshitoki pulled his hands away from his hair. 'You're going through shit,' he said bluntly.

'Thanks.'

'But you don't have to go through it alone.'

Shuya met his best friend's sincere, earnest eyes, and for the first time since Yukie turned her back on him, he felt the stirrings of something other than abject hopelessness.

'It'll be okay?' he asked.

He received three nods in reply.

'I'm still nervous,' he sighed, reaching a hand up to his head again.

Shinji stopped him. 'Stop pulling your hair. You'll never pull Kiriyama if you've gone bald.'

Momentarily distracted from one disaster by another, Shuya glared at Shinji and jerked his head towards Hiroki, who - to his knowledge - was still in the dark.

Hiroki smiled gently. 'I know, Shu,' he said.

_'Je_sus!' cried Shuya.

'He can't hear you.'

'Shut up, Mim. Did _you _tell him?'

'I guessed,' interrupted Hiroki. 'Around the time you and he got detention together. You're not very good at hiding it.'

Shuya groaned. 'Oh, God.'

'He can't hear you either.'

Shuya felt that he had made the right decision, choosing to be distanced from his friends. It hurt - there was no doubt about that - but it was out of his hands. Whether or not it did, indeed, "blow over" remained to be seen - and until then, it made sense for as few people as possible to be involved.

And so, instead of practicing baseball with the jocks, or playing guitar for his fanclub, or just being with his friends, Shuya climbed a tree on the outskirts of the playing field and waited out recess amongst the foliage.

He peered down.

'Are you alone?' he asked.

Kazuo made a show of looking around. 'Completely,' he said. He paused. 'May I join you?'

'Sure you want to?' asked Shuya.

Even Kazuo recognised the unhappiness in his voice.

'Enough of the self-pity, Nanahara,' he said, looking around for a low branch. 'How did you get up there?'

Shuya snorted. 'Magic,' he said moodily.

'I am inclined to believe you.'

Silence.

It worried Kazuo, the quiet. Nanahara and silence did not go hand in hand, and though it was none of his business or concern, he felt somehow compelled to fill the silence where Nanahara was slacking.

'You may be interested to hear,' he began, finding a knot in the trunk to haul himself up onto, 'that Kuninobu is, at this moment, in isolation for verbally abusing the Utsumie girl in the cafeteria.'

Shuya snorted again, but didn't speak. Kazuo reached a lower branch and took a moment to brush a leaf from a crease in his jacket.

'He called her - I believe the term was "heinous bitch", but I was not there, so don't account me to the validity of that.' He reached up to a higher branch, near Nanahara's feet. 'Tsukioka claims to have been present when it was said, and as far as sources go, I am doubtful that he would constitute one that warrants objective citing.'

'Kazuo,' muttered Shuya.

He stopped climbing. 'Yes?'

But there was no reply.

Shuya wanted to ask what he was doing.

He wanted to know what he was doing, dirtying his clothes by engaging in something as - as _undignified_ as climbing a tree.

He wanted to know why he wasn't with his_ own_ friends.

He wanted to know why he was trying to make _him_ feel better.

And as disengaged and sore as he was in the wake of the Yukie incident, Shuya was not immune to the paralysing way in which Kazuo Kiriyama appealed to his instincts.

And as much as he did not want to admit it, the only way that he could have sunk into greater depression would be if he successfully alienated Kazuo as well.

So he kept quiet.

_'But break, my heart,' _he murmured, _'for I must hold my tongue.'_

Kazuo reached his level, and settled comfortably on an adjacent branch, one thin eyebrow raised in surprise. 'Shakespeare, Nanahara?'

He ducked his head, embarrassed. He hadn't thought that Kazuo would be able to hear him. 'I'm not an expert,' he explained distractedly. 'I just like that one play.'

'Hmm.' Kazuo reached across and, very deliberately, plucked a twig from Nanahara's hair. That he didn't even blink gave him even greater cause for concern; what happened to the heart rate? The awkwardness? The stammering? His plans for further experimentation would be of no use if Nanahara did not comply.

He frowned.

'I would not have had you down as a _Hamlet _man,' he pressed.

Shuya turned to him and watched him, hard. It escaped his notice that Kazuo was toying with a twig in his fingers.

'You're not going to ask why I said it?' he asked.

Kazuo shrugged, but didn't answer. He didn't care.

Shuya rubbed the back of his neck. 'Of course,' he muttered, with the air of one having made an unsavoury discovery. 'You don't care. You couldn't care less. _Obviously._ Stupid Shuya, good _God...' _

His fingers tightened to grip the small hairs on the back of his head, and he pulled hard.

'Stupid Shuya,' he mumbled, wretched and dejected and, as much as it went against his baser desires, wishing fervently that Kazuo Kiriyama was not there to witness his breakdown.

'Idiot, Shu. Fucking - sorry, shouldn't swear - fucking idiot, Shu. Too damn gullible. And nice, of course._ So - very - nice. _God, I am _sick _of being nice! Who was it - Shinji or Kawada - _some_one told me, they told me that I'd get myself hurt, being so _fucking nice-'_

He rambled to himself barely audibly, and yet Kazuo heard every word. He watched with dispassionate eyes; it was none of his business if Nanahara chose to tear himself to pieces over a girl. He just so happened to be around to play spectator for Nanahara's verbal offloading.

'But, of course,' he continued, almost hysterically, 'who has to be _nice, _eh? You can try your hardest to be a good person, treat everyone the way you'd want them to treat you, talk to someone sitting on their own, make them feel like they belong because - after all - I _know _what it is to not belong. I mean,' he snorted, 'I'm an _orphan. _They don't come lonelier than us. So I'm nice. _So I'm nice. _So _what? _Look where that got me.' He dug his fingernails into the skin of his arm, leaving deep grooves in their wake. 'Who needs to be nice?' he wondered. 'Mim isn't nice. He's an ass, most of the time. Same with Kawada. And do they get themselves stuck in shit like this?' He laughed; a short, hard laugh that unexpectedly jarred with Kazuo. 'No chance. None at all.'

From somewhere around the base of his gut, an unfamiliar twisting caught hold of Kazuo, and he swallowed, unsure of what to say. He had an idea that logic and reasoning would not be appreciated, and while he reminded himself that it was _none of his business, _and that _he could not care less about Nanahara's stupid inferiority complex, _the fact remained that, for reasons unknown to him, Nanahara's discontent appeared to correlate positively with Kazuo's own.

His mouth tightened.

As suddenly and as unexpectedly as it had come, Nanahara's anger dissolved. As Kazuo watched, his scowl dropped, to be replaced with a kind of slack melancholia that, in Kazuo's opinion, did not suit him - and any thoughts of self-righteous independence and _this will not do _gave way to the strange, invasive sensation of innately connecting with Nanahara.

As much as he objected, one thing became clear to Kazuo in that moment: for the sake of his own peace of mind, Nanahara was going to have to cheer up. Watching him, leaning his head against the trunk with his eyes closed, utterly drained, it was clear that _cheering up _was something that Nanahara was unlikely to do of his own accord any time in the foreseeable future.

From there, his duty was clear.

He cleared his throat. Nanahara looked up.

'Come with me,' said Kazuo, as he climbed back down the way he came.

Shuya watched, puzzled, and waited for him to reach the ground, landing gracefully on his toes with a barely audible _flumpf_.

The two men considered each other between twenty feet of greenery.

'Why?' he called down eventually. 'What do you want?'

Kazuo's mouth twitched. 'You needn't sound so defensive, Nanahara, I'm not about to hurt you.'

'I didn't - I didn't mean that,' he mumbled, hanging his head. Kazuo sighed; this was getting nowhere. Exasperated and wishing that Nanahara would stop being so pathetic, he begrudgingly lifted the veil of pride he wore as a second skin.

He spoke quietly: 'Please will you come with me?'

Shuya was surprised out of his sulking. He didn't know that Kazuo was physically capable of _asking_. He assumed that there was no need to stoop so low as to _ask, _when to _command _was so much more effective.

'He even said "please",' he said faintly.

Kazuo cocked his head. 'Pardon?'

'N- nothing.' Shuya peered down. 'Where will you take me?'

'You'll see.'

It was maddening. Shuya didn't even _want_ to have to get a grip on his ever-growing feelings for Kazuo Kiriyama. He wanted to eat ice-cream and wallow in self-pity and try in vain to hate Yukie. At that moment, Kazuo was, ironically, an unwelcome distraction - and even as a polite rejection formed words in his head, he reached out to a lower branch and, slightly stiff in the legs, clambered down to join him.

When he reached the ground, Kazuo watched him steadily as he cleared his throat and blinked and cracked the bones in his wrists - all for the purpose of postponing having to meet his eye, he supposed.

But meet his eye he did, and Shuya imagined, just for a second, that the look in Kazuo's eyes was one that betrayed his feelings - but then he blinked, and the illusion was gone. Kazuo's eyes were flat and dead and indifferent, as always. Shuya's heart ached, and he reminded himself that Kazuo Kiriyama _had_ no feelings for his eyes to betray.

'Okay,' he said, with more energy than he was willing to use. 'What're we doing?'

Kazuo gestured to the school gates, shut and bolted as they always were during school hours. 'I believe the term is "cutting class".'

Shuya sighed. 'You're going to get me in trouble.'

'You'll get over it, I'm sure.'

They walked until Shuya thought his feet would drop from his ankles, to be swept up with the leaves the next morning and donated to medical science, and then they walked some more.

All the while, Kazuo was frustratingly enigmatic.

'Come on,' moaned Shuya. 'I'm dying. With every step I take, I am dying. I'm dying in my soul because my feet are so damn painful. Please, have pity. I deserve to know where we're going before I die.'

Kazuo flicked his eyes up to the greying sky. (He would never stoop so low as to roll his eyes in exasperation. That was an action reserved for drag queens and sexually dissatisfied women.)

'That is too bad, Nanahara,' he said without remorse. 'Frankly, I am surprised that an athletic connoisseur such as yourself should be defeated by urban walking. What happened to your stamina?'

'Never had any,' replied Shuya bluntly through his gasps. 'Honestly - baseball, basketball - there's so much standing around between playing that when it comes to actually _doing _something, it's easy.'

'Ah.' Kazuo paused. 'I understand. Short bursts of energy, as opposed to extended exercise.'

'Yeah, that,' said Shuya. 'Can you at least tell me if we're nearly there?'

Kazuo abruptly stopped. Shuya dragged his feet several more steps before he noticed that he was walking alone, and he turned back.

He was suddenly assailed by the expression on Kazuo's face, and it deeply unnerved him.

He wasn't smiling. For all intents and purposes, Kazuo looked the same as he always did - and yet, something unnameable had changed in him, and Shuya didn't know if it was in his eyes, or in his lips, or in the way he held himself - and with curious frustration, he stomped back to join him, annoyed and aware that he was unlikely to discover the change in the ever-impenetrable Kazuo Kiriyama.

The change, in fact, was deceptively simple, and one that Shuya would later kick himself for not guessing sooner.

He wasn't bored.

With his strange, unreadably unfamiliar expression, Kazuo's eyes roved to a building across the road. Shuya followed his gaze, and found himself looking at an indistinct, little house with a black, tiled roof and a battered wooden front door.

Shuya and Kazuo exchanged a glance.

'We here?'

'We are.'

Wordlessly they crossed the road, and an elderly couple surveying the world from the window of a nearby coffee shop were the only people in existence to see the way they walked in tandem, their legs moving in perfect synchronisation, as if they were programmed as such.

As they approached the tiny, poky house, squashed between two much bigger, more impressive office buildings, Shuya hung back.

Kazuo walked confidently to the door and, with his hand on the rusting, gold handle, turned.

'We've come this far, Nanahara,' he said, with an air of uncompromising finality.

Shuya picked at his hangnails behind his back. 'I'm putting all my trust in you,' he said honestly. 'I really hope this isn't a drugs den or something.'

This time, Kazuo did roll his eyes.

'Oh, no, you've caught me out,' he deadpanned. 'What a shame. You can find your way back, can't you?'

With that, he turned and entered the rickety house.

Shuya blinked twice and scrambled to catch the door before it closed on him, and he found himself in an unexpectedly dark hallway with photographs of strange-looking women with big eyes adorning the walls. Soft jazz music sounded from a room somewhere deeper in the house.

'Kazuo,' he said, 'what is this place?'

He turned to look at him.

'Where I come when I wish to be alone,' he said quietly. _I, too, am putting all my trust in you, Nanahara, _he thought. _Don't betray me._

Shuya blinked, clueless. 'What's wrong with your bedroom?' he asked stupidly.

Kazuo sighed, and was saved having to answer by a tall, thin man dressed entirely in black entering the dim hall through a door on their right. In the moment before it shut behind him, the jazz music grew louder, and Shuya caught a glimpse of a small stage flooded with a turquoise light that made the saxophonist standing in the middle of it glow with an eerie kind of mystery.

The thin man squinted in the impractical lighting, and his face abruptly brightened with recognition.

'Mr Kiriyama,' he greeted, 'long time no see!'

Kazuo nodded stiffly. 'I have been busy,' he said simply.

'I see.' The thin man obviously didn't see, but it was none of Kazuo's concern, and Shuya was too preoccupied wondering how a person's hair could stand so tall without structural support to notice anything even more out of sorts.

'I trust the four 'o' clock usual is still on?' Kazuo prompted.

The man nodded vigorously. 'Absolutely, sir.' His eyes roved to Shuya, who smiled politely, still very puzzled. 'You're not alone! When did this happen?'

'Nanahara Shuya,' said Kazuo tonelessly, with no intention of engaging with the porter any further than was necessary. 'A companion.'

'Hello,' said Shuya.

'Good afternoon,' said the bouffant-haired slenderman.

'May we come in, Suzuki?' asked Kazuo, with the barest hint of impatience.

He led them both into the blue room, and Shuya was instantly taken aback by the size of the room. From the outside of the house, it would have been impossible to tell that it contained a room so large; along one wall was a long bar, on the opposite, the stage, where the middle-aged saxophonist finished her set and inclined her head to acknowledge the small applause. Round tables for two or three evenly dotted the floorspace between the bar and the stage, and about half of them were occupied; Shuya saw more than one person sitting alone with a book, reading by the light of the desk lamp that sat atop each of the tables - to compensate for the atmospheric-if-impractical darkness, he guessed - and one elderly man was hunched over a typewriter, cleaning his glasses and frowning at the paper before him as if it displeased him. In the far corner, a young couple rested against each other, aligned comfortably, trusting of and completely dependent on the other to not let them fall. They clapped along with a few others in the room, and as the musician left the stage, they exchanged a few words; the man laughed quietly, and said something else, and as Shuya watched, she reached up and, with a single finger, drew him down to kiss him.

Shuya looked away before their lips joined, not wanting to intrude on their private moment.

Kazuo led him to a table along the side of the room, and Shuya sank into the plush armchair. His aching feet screamed their thanks.

'This is pretty niche, I guess?' suggested Shuya, for want of something to say to fill the silence.

Kazuo shrugged. 'You could say that.' He checked his watch.

'You said you come here to be alone,' said Shuya, aware that he was probably treading on thin ice - though if he was, Kazuo gave no sign of being irked.

'I did,' he conceded.

'It's not very...' Shuya coughed. 'We're not very alone, if you don't mind me saying.'

Kazuo raised an eyebrow. 'Do you want us to be?'

Shuya blushed. 'I didn't mean it like that.'

Kazuo was rather beginning to enjoy Nanahara's infatuation.

_Soon,_ he decided. _I shall commence physical interaction soon. All in good time._

He cleared the thought from his head.

'No, we are not alone in the baser sense of the word,' he admitted.

'Then, why-'

'To be alone, one does not have to be physically isolated. Sometimes we feel most alone when we are, in fact, surrounded.'

Shuya was quiet for a long time, staring into the inactive bulb of their desk lamp while questions wisped through his mind. The warmth and darkness was having a dulling effect on his head - fogging his brain, and slowing his thoughts. He struggled to articulate a relevant query, and his struggle was unaided by distracting observations along the line of _He's even more handsome when he's blue._

He blinked. Now he was just getting stupid.

'Why do you want to be alone?' he asked eventually.

'Why do you want to know?' countered Kazuo immediately.

'Just curious.'

'I find that hard to believe.'

'It's the honest truth, Kazuo.'

'Just saying that you are being truthful does little to convince me, Nanahara.'

'But I _am _telling the truth.'

'I will take your word for it.'

'Thank you.' For less than a second, Kazuo's eyes seemed to soften - but it was probably the light. 'So,' continued Shuya, 'again - why do you want to be alone?'

'Because sometimes I grow tired of being surrounded.' He answered as though it was obvious.

Shuya frowned. 'But you said - you're surrounded right now.'

'There is a difference between being surrounded and suffocated.'

Something seemed to click in Nanahara's head. 'Oh.' He thought some more. Kazuo watched, and waited, and wondered if he was aware that he was chewing his lip again.

Eventually he stopped, and Kazuo anticipated further questioning.

'And being alone - that's a good thing?'

Kazuo leaned back in his chair. 'Why all the questions, Nanahara?'

'I told you, I'm curious.'

'Why?'

'I dunno. I just am. Tell me to shut up if I get too annoying,' he added, remembering that he couldn't talk to Kazuo the way he talked to everyone else.

Of late, he'd been forgetting that Kazuo was not like normal people.

'I will,' assured Kazuo. 'So far you are doing well.'

'What - not annoying you?'

He inclined his head. Shuya sighed.

'Thanks.'

'It's an honour, Nanahara.'

'Sure it is.' Something moving in his peripheral caught Shuya's attention, and he turned to see someone - whom, in the dim light, he could not tell was a man or a woman - climbing the steps to the stage, holding an electric-acoustic guitar in one hand and an amplifier in the other. Certain that he was going to want to hear what they were about to play, he turned back to Kazuo, and spoke more quickly.

'Why do you sometimes want to be alone?'

'Because sometimes I am tired of being surrounded.'

'You _said _that!'

He smiled an infuriating smile.

'It is the honest truth.'

'But that-!'

Shuya broke off, and scowled.

'Why are you so mysterious?' he asked, almost sulkily. On stage, the guitarist began to tune up.

'Why are you so vibrant?' Kazuo quipped. 'Some things do not have an answer.'

Shuya's head was beginning to hurt.

'Alright. Fine. Unexplained mystery, whatever.'

Kazuo rather enjoyed a frustrated Nanahara. He made for far more interesting conversation than when he was blushing and stumbling all over himself as he attempted to hide his erection with a tactically placed hand or elbow.

He was roused from his thoughts by a request for just one more question.

'Ask away, Nanahara.'

Shuya rubbed the back of his neck. 'What're we doing here, Kazuo?'

As if it had been scripted, the guitarist cleared their throat into the microphone, and both Shuya and Kazuo turned to watch.

'Afternoon,' he or she said, in a voice that screamed _decades of heavy smoking_. 'Kaoru Watanabe. This is _Wonderwall.'_

Shuya's fingers fretted along with the introduction as they played, but all the same, he shot Kazuo a strange look.

'Oasis? Really?'

Kazuo smirked. 'Just wait.'

Shuya sighed, and turned his gaze back to the guitarist, just as they reached the end of the introduction and opened their mouth, taking a deep breath to sing.

_'Today is gonna be the -'_

'Motherfuck,' said Shuya accidentally, earning a reproachful glare from the nearest patrons. Kazuo shot him an amused glance, but didn't comment.

No one spoke, and had they, Shuya would have maimed them; and as Kaoru Watanabe manipulated their voice and their guitar with an ease that surpassed expertise, he felt like an enormous jerk for his own involuntary outburst.

Whoever he or she was, Kaoru Watanabe transcended the realms of ordinariness. With a singing voice heavy as a long and difficult life, it scraped from their throat as if it caused them pain - and yet the words slipped from their thin, wrinkled lips with a kind of familiarity that, to Shuya, said very clearly, "This is why I am alive." Shuya watched, open-mouthed, and simultaneously desired and feared the power in Watanabe's possession; if _he _could sing like that, with his entire world depending on the next verse - if _he _could sing with the _need, _the _determination _of Kaoru Watanabe - then he too could be amazing. He sank into the music, and even though he was conscious of his own dramatics, he felt in that moment that no moment could match the moment he was in.

He couldn't say for sure why, but their _passion _(he winced at the word; it seemed so unworthy, when attributed to the hypnotic, sensory gift he was witnessing) made Shuya feel insignificant.

His eyes locked firmly on the figure onstage, he edged his chair closer to Kazuo's - and was so focused on being silent so as to not disturb the performance, that it didn't occur to him to hesitate at their closeness. He leant in, and the ends of Kazuo's hair brushed the skin of his cheek - Kazuo's eyes flicked briefly up to meet his gaze before he returned his attention to the singer, and in the confined, intimate darkness with the potential to hide all kinds of sins, the absentminded prospect of leaning in just a little further and kissing him seemed nothing short of a very, very good idea.

Shuya caught himself and leaned back a little.

'Kazuo,' he whispered.

His eyes, trained on the guitarist, swiveled to meet Shuya's; and in Shuya's shadowed features, he saw awe.

'Yes?' he whispered back.

'This is incredible.'

'I was aware.'

'Really incredible.'

'Yes.'

'Thank you for bringing me here.'

'That is-'

He was rendered unable to finish his sentence. For the first time in his life, Kazuo Kiriyama was stunned speechless. Before he could finish graciously acknowledging Nanahara's needy words of thanks, a body had invaded his personal space to an uncharted degree. Wiry, firm arms wrapped tightly around his torso, and as Nanahara rested his head against Kazuo's shoulder, Kazuo stiffened.

His first instinct was to allow Mitsuru to exact revenge - and in the absence of his loyal guard dog, the instinct to push him away was raw and animalistic and violent, erupting in his chest and making his skin tingle and itch with the shock of unwanted contact. As Nanahara exercised entitlement and a level of presumption that was nothing short of insulting, Kazuo wanted to send a bullet pounding through one side of his head and emerge from the other, if only because he was briefly angered that Nanahara - stupid, gullible, innocent, trusting Nanahara - had instigated the physicality that he himself had planned to start.

In short, he was disappointed. It took every scrap of self-restraint (of which he had in excess) to not raise a hand to Nanahara's jaw and, in a quick, discreet movement, twist his head until a satisfying _snap _resounded from his spine and he went limp. His constricting arms would drop like dead weights to his side, freeing Kazuo from his warm grasp, and his heart would hack and splutter to a stop.

Instead, Kazuo lifted one arm - and then the other - and tentatively, unsurely, returned Nanahara's embrace. It was awkward and uncomfortable - they were each twisted to face the other by the waist, Nanahara's hair was pushing against Kazuo's ear, and their heavy breath filled the air with a kind of staleness that kept them grounded in reality - but to a backdrop of haunting, ethereal, gritty singing, in a darkened room of strangers and nobodies, Shuya hugged Kazuo, and to his delight, Kazuo hugged him back - and through several layers of clothing and a barely-intact, muddled sense of pride, Shuya got an erection.

Kazuo was aware.

* * *

Wonderwall; copyright Oasis, 1995.  
(Remember that reviews feed my children.)


	9. Chapter 8: Reality Check

A short while after the guitarist finished their set, Kazuo and Shuya left the little music bar and, with surprisingly little complaining on Nanahara's part, began the arduous trek back to their side of the city.

Kazuo could barely feel his feet against the pavement; it was only the slow progression of the street that surrounded them, and Nanahara's gentle bobbing as he walked alongside him, that let him know he was moving at all. In his peripheral he watched Nanahara carefully, and with a kind of anticipation with which he was unfamiliar.

Frustratingly, Nanahara walked cooly, almost dispassionately, and looked ahead in the direction he was going, never once straying to capture a glance of the man next to him.

It bothered Kazuo, Nanahara's indifference. He wasn't _allowed _to be indifferent. He wasn't _capable _of indifference. That was _Kazuo's_ department - and yet, in spite of the offensive instance of blatant copycat syndrome, Kazuo himself was far more concerned about the way Nanahara's skin was devoid of the awkward redness it displayed whenever Kazuo was around.

Nanahara _can't _not care, he decided.

'So?' he asked eventually, ashamed of his own breathlessness - though he still couldn't feel the pressure on his muscles that he expected, so it can't have been down to the exercise. 'What did you think?'

Nanahara turned to look at him, and looked surprised, almost, that he was not alone.

Kazuo panicked. _You can't have forgotten me, _he thought weakly.

'You needn't think so little of yourself,' said Nanahara flatly. 'I had not forgotten you were there.'

Kazuo's eyes widened. _I said that?_

'To say that you are behaving rather strangely is something of an understatement, Kiriyama.'

He coughed uncomfortably. 'I- I am?'

Nanahara gave him a pitying, exasperated look. 'Obviously,' he said, articulating every syllable with a harshness that did not match with the Nanahara that he had been getting to know.

In fact - now that he looked closer - the Nanahara before him was not like the Nanahara he had taken to a secret little music hall, whose blush had been dark red and endlessly visible even in the dim light, who had audibly exclaimed at the matchless voice of Kaoru Watanabe, and who had even _hugged _him - Kazuo stopped walking - or did he imagine that?

'You imagined nothing, Kiriyama,' said Nanahara from several feet ahead. Kazuo hurried to catch up with him. 'I embraced you in a moment of ill-judgement and lowered inhibitions.' He glanced sideways, down at Kazuo's crushed, innocent expression. 'I apologise if I offended.'

'No!' Kazuo blurted, reaching out instinctively and seizing hold of Nanahara's upper arm, forcing him to face him. 'I'm not offended. I promise I'm not. But Shuya-'

'On first name terms, are we?' interrupted Nanahara archly.

Kazuo felt lost. Whatever reign he had over Shuya Nanahara was dissipating faster than he could ever imagine it would.

'I would go so far as to say that it is turning the other way, somewhat.'

_'Huh?'_

Nanahara rolled his eyes. 'At least _try _to make yourself worthy of conversation, _Kiriyama,' _he said cruelly. 'Inarticulate noises hardly constitute intelligent contribution.'

He didn't understand.

'Apparently not,' Nanahara commented, eyeing him as one might eye a hideous beetle, and he jerked his arm out of his grasp and briskly walked away.

Once more Kazuo hurried to catch up, and as he left his pride completely behind, his eyes began to water. He blinked rebellious tears away before Nanahara could see the state he was in.

'Shuya,' he said desperately, reaching out for him again. 'Shuya, please-'

'You are tiresome,' interrupted Nanahara, without turning. 'You expressed romantic interest, of which I was aware-'

'You _knew _about that?' wailed Kazuo.

'-and yet, you do not offer to make yourself useful. In fact, short of being a novel distraction, you have not made yourself good for anything at all.' He paused. 'Except putting a drain on my time,' he added, 'where the opportunity for you to offer yourself as a valuable tool of research was ample - but you did not.' He shrugged, and pushed Kazuo's beseeching hands away from his arm. 'You have, as they say, _outlived your usefulness_ and _outstayed your welcome._ Go home, Kiriyama.'

Amid his shattered self-esteem and broken heart, Kazuo seized his arm once more.

Nanahara seemed to pick up on his determination, for he stopped walking, and allowed himself to be pulled back to face him.

Rain began to fall, but Kazuo did not feel the wetness penetrate his thin clothing.

'Take me, Shuya,' he said hollowly. He let go, and lifted his heavy arms from his side as far as his depleted energy would allow. 'Please. Take me. Do your research - _use _me - I _don't care, _Shuya - but please-' He sobbed once, and rain spotted his cheeks. '-please, don't go without me.'

Nanahara spared him a withering glance. 'You are behaving like a child, Kiriy-'

_'I know!'_ he shouted, and the rain grew heavier. 'Please - _please _- tell me what to do.' He stopped, breathing heavily, and looked up to meet Nanahara's unreadable expression. 'Tell me what you _want _me to do. I'll do it.' He lifted the three middle fingers of his right hand in a halfhearted salute. 'Scout's honour,' he said, with a weak, unconvincing laugh.

Nanahara's eyes adopted a glint that Kazuo had not seen before. His lips curved, and he bared his teeth dangerously.

'Come with me,' he said, in a low voice that reverberated throughout the fragile corners of Kazuo's confused mind. Kazuo went - and then they were in an unfamiliar, neutral bedroom, and Nanahara shed his jacket and shoes matter-of-factly as Kazuo watched unblinkingly, with no recollection of how they got there.

Nanahara turned, and looked him up and down indifferently before spreading his arms.

'Well?' he said expectantly. 'Make yourself useful.'

Kazuo scrambled to reach him quickly enough; his fingers scrabbled hopelessly at Nanahara's shirt buttons, and at his zipper, and at his vest, and though he didn't know how, Nanahara was suddenly clad in nothing but black underwear.

He looked up at him, seeking approval, and Nanahara nodded.

'Good start,' he said condescendingly.

Kazuo hesitated, and slowly raised his hands to his own shirt buttons. He looked up at Nanahara again. He nodded.

His own clothes gone, he lifted a hand unsurely, anticipating rejection with every second, to brush Nanahara's cheek.

Nanahara closed his eyes, and with the very softest of moans, leaned into his hand.

Kazuo's fingers splayed to maintain a firmer grasp; and quickly, so he couldn't be mocked for his uncertainty, he stood on his tiptoes and kissed his cold lips.

It was so quick, and so light, that when he opened his eyes again, he wondered if it had really happened. Indeed, if Nanahara's smirk was anything to go by, he was having similar thoughts. Kazuo dispelled them quickly as he reached up again, and smashed his mouth to Nanahara's with enough force that it should have hurt. That it didn't, did not concern him as much as the almost-ghostly feel of Nanahara's hard, firm lips moulding to his own; that his own skin felt as dead as glass was disregarded over the realisation that they had inexplicably fallen onto the bed, seemingly without either of them noticing any sort of impact.

Kazuo crawled above Nanahara, lying still underneath his body, and he lowered his mouth to the other man's torso, taking between his lips and perusing with his tongue various parts of Nanahara's upper body; his hard, bony sternum, the firm muscles of his stomach, the two small, brown nubs on either side of his chest - Kazuo sucked and licked, small noises of gratification pouring from his own full mouth, but not from Nanahara's.

He stopped, and raised his head to meet his eye, afraid he was doing something wrong.

Nanahara raised an eyebrow.

'Continue,' he said flatly.

Kazuo's chest rose and fell with such irregularity that he wondered if he was okay. Quelling the thought, he launched himself at Nanahara and, with an intense, desperate, longing kind of fury, stole his cruel lips with a kiss that allowed no room for cold remarks. His hands ran nervous, repetitive circles on the planes of Nanahara's chest, and from between his legs, he pressed their cores together as closely as he could, and he rocked erratically against Nanahara's body-

With a low grunt from deep within his throat, Kazuo Kiriyama opened his eyes.

While he waited for his heartbeat to slow, still racing from the energy of his dream, he ran a quick self-scan: sweating. Shaking legs. Dry mouth. Raging erection.

His mouth tightened. Not good.

He glanced at his bedside clock; six forty-five. About time he awoke anyway. Before he could get out of bed, he waited for his - ah - _heat _to cool down, as he considered the dream he had just had.

It quickly became apparent - just as he recalled the imaginary feeling of Nanahara's body trapped under his own - that "dispassionately considering" the vision of his sleep was doing nothing to help him - ahem - cool off. Which was ridiculous - how should a silly dream - nothing more than a mental experience - be able to affect him so?

He lifted the sheets and glanced down to where he throbbed almost painfully.

_Not an entirely mental experience, then, _he thought wryly, and hesitated.

Had he bothered to confess to anyone that he had never once indulged in self-pleasure, he would not have been lying. Like sex, it was merely an unnecessary venture into the caverns of one's own sexuality - and unlike real sex, there seemed something mildly pitiful about climaxing by one's own hand. Hirono briefly crossed his mind, before he remembered that she was no longer available to him. He cursed himself for letting her off so quickly. He was sure that he could have restrained himself until she was able to deal with it - but what was he supposed to do now?

He tapped the fingers of his left hand against his chest, focusing on the rhythm as his other hand clenched and unclenched in frustration. He didn't _want _to have to address the enormous problem that resided between his legs - but he was effectively trapped to the confines of his bedroom until it went away again.

He shut his eyes and reluctantly shoved a hand down his pants, gritting his teeth as he determined to get the ordeal over with as soon as humanly possible.

Several minutes later, he lay on top of his covers, pink-cheeked and panting, and as the physical high began to ebb, he came to the mature decision to abort Mission Nanahara.

He wiped his hand delicately with a tissue.

'He is not worth it,' he muttered. 'He is not worth the trouble.'

_Trouble _meant a great deal of things. In relation to Nanahara - _fucking _Nanahara, he thought viciously - _trouble _was akin to an emotional investment that Kazuo was unwilling to make. Not that he was unwilling to invest anything at all; time, yes; money, of course; but dreams? Feeling? Kazuo did not _dream. _Kazuo did not _feel. _He laughed shortly.

'Fucking Nanahara,' he said bitterly.

That he was even preoccupied with anything other than his own wellbeing was down to Nanahara. He did not have the time nor the patience to accommodate another human being, with their human thoughts and feelings and worries and bouts of paranoia. He hated Nanahara, for taking his place, even if only in his dream; he resented the lingering fear of rejection that had been so prevalent in his dream, but he resented far more the stirrings of something that felt horribly like guilt that ghosted in a knot around the base of his gut.

He resented how dream-Nanahara had treated him - as if he was worthless. Insignificant.

'Is that how _he _feels around _me?'_ he wondered. The knot tightened and his frown momentarily deepened before giving way to a small, empty smile. He did not have to concern himself with controlling his Nanahara-inspired humanity anymore.

_Here endeth the experiment, _he thought, forcing himself to be relieved.

* * *

Imma gon' bump this up to an M sometime soon. Just so ya'll know what's going on in this twisted, kinky world of mine.


	10. Chapter 9: Takako

As summer approached with increasingly-unwelcome bouts of stifling heat, the sports staff thought it best for the ninth grade females to continue with their pilates training in the warm, inadequately-sized room leading off the sports hall. Within fifteen minutes of the lesson beginning, Yoshimi Yaghagi and Mayumi Tendo were both taken to the nurse's room after passing out, and in the wake of their absence, Ms Pitera - half-American, huge-breasted and pug-faced - snorted loudly.

'Good riddance,' she said. 'There's not enough room in here for the weak and feeble.'

Takako's lip twitched in annoyance.

The promising athlete and the failed Olympic hundred-and-ten metre hurdler did not, to put it mildly, see eye to eye.

'Perhaps,' said Takako clearly, with sufficient authority to silence whatever orders were about to come from the teacher's mouth, 'it would be wise for our lessons to relocate to somewhere with more space - maybe,' she shrugged, 'I don't know - _outside _seems a reasonable compromise, don't you think?'

Ms Pitera wasn't impressed.

'Chigusa,' she barked. 'On the floor.'

Takako sighed. It wasn't worth the argument. She didn't even need to be told what to do; she went down, and immediately started on the fifty situps that, in these lessons, had become synonymous with the barest hint of sass.

'One,' she said dully. The other girls ignored her; Takako Chigusa doing various exercises by way of punishment was a common occurrence; and despite how little she cared, it did not escape her notice that, because of it, they sought to alienate her even more. She shook her fringe out of her eyes, and continued the situps with increased vigour and a sour expression. 'Two. Three. Four. Fi-'

'Quietly, Chigusa.'

She rolled her eyes. From her place on the floor, she snidely queried the claim of pilates as legitimate exercise, and promptly earned herself another fifty situps.

'Well, good,' she snarked. 'Core exercise is core exercise. But mincing around with a space hopper?' She shook her head condescendingly, and with a wry, sarcastic smile, addressed her classmates. 'I hope y'all get really good at relaxing your pelvic floor and taking deep breaths-'

'Chigusa!'

She smiled, and as Ms Pitera turned to the rest of the class with steam visibly pouring from her ears, Takako volunteered with exaggerated chirpiness to do another fifty.

Ms Pitera ignored her.

'Ladies,' she said loudly, refusing to rise again at the Chigusa girl, 'you know what to do. Get the mats out-'

_'One hundred and fifty situps?' _interrupted Yukiko Kitano in a shocked whisper, holding her fingers up to her face in belated calculation. As a series of strange looks headed her way, she realised that she had spoken out of turn; blushing painfully, she ducked her head and tried to dissolve.

A loud snort rattled across the small, stuffy room.

'Congratulations, Kitano,' came an almost unfamiliar, drawling voice from behind. 'You've levelled up from _complete retard_ to _mere idiot._ Good work.'

Not one of the women in the room was to know, but Hirono Shimizu was in an exceptionally good mood; and as twenty surprised schoolgirls turned to find the source of the insult, it became clear to all that she was back in form. It didn't take a genius to guess the cause.

Yukiko Kitano, for her part, was _not _a genius, but fragile as she was, and having been made to feel foolish, she was too wound up to deduce that, for whatever reason, Kazuo Kiriyama had deigned to join Hirono in her bed again. There was a moment of silence before she began to cry.

As insignificant and immature as it all was from Takako's perspective as she reached her fortieth situp, the next minute or so was a somewhat amusing mess of teenage hysteria and tears and Ms Pitera shrieking at Hirono to get down and do one hundred pushups, and to keep her mouth shut as she did it or there'll be severe trouble to answer for, young lady.

All in all, it was not a conducive atmosphere for pilates.

'Breath _iiin,' _murmured Takako, 'and _relaaax...'_

Hirono joined her in the corner, and started on her pushups. Takako could have pointed out to her where she was going wrong - basic things, like keeping her back straight, or having her hands on the floor parallel to her shoulders - but it wasn't worth the effort. Takako rolled her eyes, and minded her own business.

As the familiar ache began to burn in her core muscles, the class settled down and, save for Takako and Hirono in the Naughty Corner, started the gentle stretches and deep breathing that constituted _exercise_.

She couldn't help herself. With an ungraceful snort, Takako shook her head at them all, and said: 'Pathetic. Blatant sexism.'

Hirono looked up. 'What?'

Takako sighed.

'Nothing. Talking to myself.'

Hirono paused, and considered Takako, and only when her arms began to shake with exertion did she remember to carry on with her own tedious exercise.

Of every person in the school, there were very few of whom Hirono was wary - and it frustrated her that, for no obvious reason, her boldness seemed to crack around Takako Chigusa. She didn't like thinking about it, but if she had to guess, she would have attributed it to Takako's seeming indifference - a lesser kind of Kazuo Kiriyama, she supposed. Takako Chigusa was quite something; she was unfazed by childish rumours and standard bitchiness and, unlike the other girls in their class, she was physically able to go to the bathroom without a whole entourage of stupid friends.

In fact, were Takako less cold to Hirono herself, she would doubtless be counted among the _very _few - up there with Mitsuko and Kiriyama - worthy of her respect.

As it was...

She narrowed her eyes.

'You should be grateful, Chigusa,' she said.

Takako looked up, surprised. Conversation from her female classmates was not something she had come to anticipate.

'Why?'

Hirono smiled sardonically.

'Y'know. Me being here - you've got the opportunity to practice some human conversation. It must get so boring, talking to yourself all the time.'

Takako sat up, and slowly removed her hands from behind her head.

She was unused to being called up on her behaviour. To her peers, she was just the standoffish girl who thought she was better than everyone else because of her sports - and Takako was fine with that. She _was _better than everyone else - but only because of her independence. Looking around at her classmates, giggling and chattering away like dumb animals, she was astonished and depressed at how much they all _depended _on each other.

And of anyone to call her up on her arrogance, Hirono Shimizu was so unexpected that Takako hadn't even considered it. She assumed it would be Hiroki, when he eventually grew bored of her, to tell her in plain and simple words that she was a cold bitch with a severe attitude problem and an overinflated head to compensate for the size of her lips and breasts. She _knew _she was a cold bitch with a severe attitude problem and thin lips and a flat chest, but Hiroki had never said anything of the sort - and the thought made her feel empty, so she stopped thinking.

She watched Hirono, unsure of how to react.

_Be a cold bitch, _she told herself.

'Whatever you want, Shimizu,' she said dismissively. 'I'm busy.' She did an exaggerated couple of situps to make a point.

_Drop it, _she thought. _Anyone else would._

To her dismay, Hirono laughed.

'Lose the act, Chigusa!' Abandoning the pushups altogether, Hirono shifted to rest back on her elbows. To anyone watching, they looked for all the world like a couple of friends chatting about a book they'd read. 'It must get lonely, being you. Do you know what people say about you?'

Takako refused to take the bait.

'People say a lot of things,' she said tonelessly, getting on with her situps as though she wasn't hurting.

'Yes,' Hirono persisted, 'but do you know what they say about _you?'_

_Of course I know, _thought Takako furiously.

'Enlighten me,' she said flatly.

Hirono smiled.

'They call you _Robo-Bitch.' _She laughed. 'It's good, isn't it?'

Takako snorted. 'Hardly the first time I've heard it.'

'Oh?'

'It was never original. No one ever gave a shit.'

Hirono shrugged. In her smile resided a cold sort of maliciousness, and a little deeper lay years of pent-up frustration at a world determined to go any way but her own - and presented in front of her was a prime opportunity to take revenge with wild abandon. It was satisfying, and in Hirono's infinite fragility, sealed over by a thin, thin layer of cruelty, Takako Chigusa was therapy.

'Still,' she continued, 'I can't even imagine how _strong _you have to be, to deal with all the hatred. I mean-' She broke off with a small laugh at Takako's unimpressed face. '- it must be hard when your own boyfriend is ashamed to be seen around you.'

Takako prickled: for a start, things between she and Hiroki were unfortunately platonic - and in an unsteady wave of paranoia, various images and snippets of conversation between she and him flitted through her mind. She scanned them frantically, searching for evidence of _shame _in her friend's demeanour - and when she found none, her paranoia increased threefold.

_What does she know? _she thought, panicked. Involuntarily, she flinched; Hirono relished in satisfaction.

_Rise, _she begged. _Take the bait. Give me a release, Chigusa._

Takako flexed her fingers, as though she knew what she was thinking, and looked her in the eye.

'Don't, Shimizu,' she warned. 'I'm not in the mood.'

'In that case,' replied Hirono without missing a beat, 'care to give me a time and date, to reschedule our little _tete-a-tete _for a time more convenient for you?'

Takako stilled.

As little as she knew about Hirono Shimizu, the things she was saying did not sound natural, coming out of her mouth. She was trying too hard to be clever, Takako guessed. Because there was nothing more intimidating than intelligent argument being turned against oneself, it made sense for wit and calculation to be prime tool for lashing out - for getting revenge on the world.

Takako could empathise with that. Empathy, however, was not enough to compensate for the overwhelming confusion she felt at being singled out.

'Cut the crap,' she said bluntly. 'Why me?'

_Just stop, Hirono._

Hirono's smile widened.

'Why not?'

_Easy targets aren't entertaining forever._

Takako swallowed to clear her dry throat.

'I'm not interested,' she said.

Hirono was laughing before she'd even finished speaking.

'Interested? Don't flatter yourself. It's not like I want to _fuck _you.'

They had long given up on their punishment exercises, and Hirono knelt up on the floor, physically elevated above Takako, and she grinned.

'Or maybe _you_ do?'

Takako snorted. (There was no adequate response to a statement like that.)

Hirono continued. 'Some girls have standards, Chigusa. You know, they don't get wet over another girl, or someone like Sugim-'

Takako snapped.

_'Standards?' _She shook her head in an attempt to clear the hot blood rushing furiously past her eardrums. 'You're fucking _Kiriyama, _and you're talking to _me _about _standards?'_

The smug grin slipped from Hirono's lips to be replaced with an ugly kind of jealousy.

'Fuck you, Chigusa,' she spat. Heads began to turn their way. 'At least Kiriyama wants me.'

The dregs of any remaining patience in Takako's possession promptly disintegrated. Had she been standing, she would have stamped her foot.

'You're fooling no one,' she said. 'Kiriyama doesn't want anyone. You're the only one dumb enough not to see it.'

Hirono slapped her.

All around them, the sound of twenty gasps punctured the air, and when Takako punched Hirono in retaliation, they were joined by the sound of twenty pairs of hands clapping to twenty mouths. The room was empty save for the alternating low thuds and grunts of pain, and their classmates simultaneously struggled to find a side to root for. Neither Takako nor Hirono was particularly likeable; as Yuka later said to Noriko in a guilty whisper, 'They both deserved to lose.'

It didn't take long for Ms Pitera to break them apart. It seemed to take even less time for details of the mid-pilates Shimizu vs. Chigusa bitchfight to reach everyone in the year. (Mitsuru Numai had to be informed that they were neither naked nor covered in mud, and he was duly disappointed.)

At the end of the day, Hirono bounded up to Kazuo as he was leaving, and asked if he was proud of her.

'Proud?' he asked flatly. 'Of what?'

Her smile slipped only slightly. _'You _know. Didn't you hear?'

'Be specific.'

She pointed to her blackening eye. 'I defended your honour, good sir.'

His eye twitched, and he turned away from her in disgust.

He _had _heard what she'd done, and with each longing, erotic verbal replay from Mitsuru he had to endure, he grew more and more regretful of his decision to resume control of her services.

It had irrationally occurred to him more than once that Nanahara was much less likely to make a fool of himself in a misguided attempt to _defend his honour._

He paused, and recalled Nanahara's general idiocy.

_Marginally less likely, perhaps, _he amended.

He shook Nanahara from his mind (with greater reluctance than he cared to acknowledge) and turned back to Shimizu, gazing at him like an adoring puppy.

He sighed. 'What? Do you wish to be congratulated for your efforts?'

'Well...' She winked. 'I can think of a good way for you to thank me.'

_'Thank _you?' he spat, without thinking. He caught himself quickly before she had time to be insulted. 'I mean - of course, yes.' He paused. 'You are referring to sex, I assume.'

She nodded. 'You assume correct.' She winked again, and Kazuo swallowed down the nausea it instilled. His mind flickered to Nanahara, and his determination increased.

_He was an experiment, _he reminded himself. _Nothing more._

In a rare show of affection, no matter how feigned, and as a sign of how keenly he tried to delete traces of Nanahara from his mind, he lifted an arm and placed it gingerly on her shoulders. Once the surprise passed, she snuggled in immediately to his side and, despite the relatively bad day she'd had, allowed herself a moment of contentment, oblivious to the preoccupied state of the man she already considered a boyfriend. More than anything else, Hirono was just happy that he had come back to where he belonged.

* * *

Hello, charming readers.  
Three questions to litter my review page:  
1. WHAT. is your name?  
2. WHAT. is your quest?  
3. WHAT. is Kazuo likely to do should Shuya want to talk about feelings and stuff?


	11. Chapter 10: Guytalk

Stuffed into a tiny corner of homeroom were Shuya and Hiroki. The rest of the class was outside, taking advantage of the gorgeous sunshine and their lunch break, but the warmth and the freedom meant nothing to Shuya.

He thought he was losing his mind.

'It's been three weeks, Sugi,' he said.

'You've told me at least four times already, Shu.'

'But I...' Shuya clenched and unclenched his fists. 'I don't understand,' he said eventually, lost.

He knew that Kazuo and Hirono were back on. He knew that they weren't on, and then Kazuo took him to the music place, and then they _were _on. He had hugged him back - he _knew _he had, he _wasn't _imagining it, as his friends had suggested more than once - and Kazuo and Hirono were back on. He and Kazuo had walked back together, and it didn't seem to take anywhere as near as long as it had when they walked there. They had talked all the way, and had described to one another in great detail their all-time favourite musician - for Shuya, naturally it was Springsteen, and for Kazuo, surprisingly, it was Frank Sinatra ("What?" he'd demanded defensively. "His voice is amiable and his Mafia connections dubious. What's not to like?") - and when they had reached their town they parted, and Shuya had said, "We should do this again sometime," and he had said it as more of a statement than a question, and he immediately worried that he sounded too pushy so then he coughed and said, "I mean, only if you want to," but then Kazuo said, "Of course. I would like that," and Shuya had been on such a high that he had practically _floated_ home to the orphanage, and he told Yoshitoki what had happened and the two of them had agreed that it sounded as if they were getting closer, and that was three weeks ago, and now Kazuo and Hirono were back on and Shuya was losing his mind.

'He hasn't spoken to me,' he whimpered. 'Not once.'

Hiroki shifted uncomfortably. 'Have _you _tried speaking to _him, _maybe?' he asked tentatively.

Shuya snapped out of his angst for a moment to give him such a look of disgust that he immediately retracted his suggestion.

'Sorry, sorry,' he said quickly. 'Wasn't thinking. Stupid idea.'

Before his eyes, Shuya's anger morphed again into abject misery.

'No, it wasn't,' he said sadly. 'Sorry.'

Hiroki was shaking his head before he'd finished speaking. 'Don't be, Shu,' he said. Utterly useless at handling emotional outbursts and willing to give anything a try, he changed the conversation's direction. 'Look,' he said carefully, 'maybe Kiriyama is just scared.'

Shuya looked up from where he had been wretchedly staring down at his lap. 'How do you mean?'

'Well...' He opened and closed his mouth, struggling to find the right words. Speaking, as a rule, had never been his strong point. 'Think about it. For someone like him, this whole - uh - _liking _thing is probably completely unfamiliar.'

Shuya chewed his lip.

'I dunno, Sugi,' he said. 'I don't think he ever liked me. Not even just as a friend. I mean-' he laughed, a hollow, hunted laugh, 'he doesn't _have _friends. He uses people when they're useful, and lets them go when they're not.'

Hiroki nudged him. 'Don't say that. Have you ever thought that it could be just an act?'

Shuya shook his head violently. 'No. No, I don't think it's an act. I think that he doesn't feel - _can't _feel, for anyone. And I thought I was different.' He struggled to control the hot, prickly tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. 'He's just showing me that I'm not.'

He swallowed - with difficulty. The lump in his throat had become a permanent fixture, and it made basic actions - talking, eating - difficult and painful.

The previous night, he had been changing for bed. Yoshioki, already down to his boxers, watched him.

'You're getting skinny,' he remarked, out of the blue.

Shuya started. 'What?'

Yoshitoki stood, wandered over to him and poked his stomach. 'You're losing your abs. Are you exercising?' He narrowed his eyes. 'Are you eating?'

Shuya turned away, unable to meet his accusing gaze.

'Yes,' he lied. 'Of course.'

It occurred to him many times that he was, just maybe, taking things a bit too seriously. So, the guy he liked didn't like him back. So what? How often did that happen every day? Shuya's pain was insignificant. He was the victim of teenage heartbreak, and like the thousands of millions of victims before him, he would heal.

_'If it be,_/_Why seems it so particular with thee?'_

_'"Seems", madam? Nay, it is; I know not "seems".'_

He had been reading a lot of _Hamlet. _(Yoshitoki had banned what he described as "depressing shit" from their bedroom, and so Shuya had no opportunity to weep dramatically to a soundtrack of songs about lost love, as he would have liked. Shakespearean tragedy was merely an adequate substitute.)

Hiroki nudged him back to the present.

'Where are you, Shu?' he asked sadly. 'Come back to us.'

And he tried.

He went back to baseball practice. He forced down three meals a day. He played guitar. He even joked with his friends - but it was irrelevant. He couldn't bring himself to care about the few games he played. His stomach rejected every meal he ate. His guitar sounded ugly, no matter how much he tuned it. His jokes fell flat, and even to him, his laughter was forced and dead.

A week following his attempt to re-engage, he gave up. He asked to be left alone.

It was a Friday. Following weeks of stifling sunshine, the rain that fell was almost welcome. Homeroom was packed during lunch break; despite the welcome downpour, no one wanted to be outside in it. It was noisy and cramped, and still Shuya managed to have a desk to himself, in the corner he had come to adopt as his own, where he could pretend to read as he determinedly refused to make eye contact with anyone.

From the opposite corner, Kazuo spared Nanahara a glance, and said to himself _He is nothing. _He said it ten times. Then he tuned in, again, to the inane conversation of his family. Mild exasperation and impatience was preferable to the unnameable, uncomfortable pinching feeling he got when he saw Nanahara, alone and subdued.

Meanwhile, Shuya felt the itching heat on the back of his neck of someone's gaze, and fought with himself over whether or not to look up and see who it was.

On the one hand, it might be Kazuo. His heart gave a hopeful lurch.

On the other, it could be any one of the other forty people in the room.

Looking up equated to almost-certain disappointment, and so he kept his eyes down and tried to get the words on the page to mean something. He read and reread the same sentence about six times before it processed, and then it occurred to him that he didn't even know what he was reading.

He put it to one side with a sigh, before the K-word floated over to his ears from a conversation a few tables across. He stilled.

'...and Kazuo - he has this way of using his fingers-'

Shuya could have cried. He stole a furtive glance in the direction of the voice, and - sure enough - found Hirono Shimizu perched on a desk, leaning in to speak to Yoshimi Yaghagi, looking up at her through wide eyes, completely rapt.

He didn't want to hear it, but he listened anyway.

'...and sometimes - I shouldn't say this, you'll only tell everyone - he'll go down on me, and then-'

'He'll _what?'_

For whatever reason, the idea seemed shocking to Yoshimi. Hirono arched an eyebrow.

'Yes?' she challenged.

'I- I just-' Yoshimi stammered under the weight of Hirono's derision. 'I'm just surprised. Yoji told me that he thinks-'

'I hate it when he thinks. It's always dumb.'

'- um, y-yeah, okay - but he says that guys don't _like _doing that.'

Hirono laughed. 'Then you've got the wrong guy.' She stretched delicately, her breasts pushing against her shirt and her skirt slipping inches further up her thighs. _'I _got lucky.'

Something in Shuya broke. He stood, vision misted and limbs shaking, and from across the class, honed in on his destination.

Yoshitoki watched from afar as hurt clouded Shuya's face. When he stood, and made a beeline for - surprise, surprise - Kazuo Kiriyama, Yoshitoki panicked.

'We've got to stop him,' he hissed to Shinji, beginning to stand. 'He'll just get himself beat up or something.'

Hiroki tugged him back down to his chair. 'Leave him,' he said. 'It's his funeral.'

Indeed, it looked for a minute as though the classroom was to be Shuya's place of rest. For a squeaky-clean underling like Nanahara to walk straight up to the Kiriyama family and bluntly ask its leader for a word was positively unheard of. Mitsuru could barely believe what he was witnessing.

He cracked his knuckles. 'What was that, Nanahara?' he demanded.

Shuya spared him a glance, before fixing his gaze on Kazuo again. While his insides knotted and twisted at their proximity - closer than they had been since they said goodbye, weeks before - Shuya's face was blank. Next to Kazuo's ever-present mask of impassivity, they made a good, indifferent pair.

'Kiriyama,' he said clearly, 'can we talk?'

Amidst Mitsuru's spiked aggression and his talk of not addressing the Boss, Kazuo considered Nanahara. He saw through the blankness. He saw the sunken cheeks, the hunched shoulders, the clenched fists, the anger, the hurt and the determination that adorned his thin face.

'...should know better than to bring your dumb jock shit over to us...'

Shuya met Kazuo's gaze steadily.

_Ignore me, _he thought. _Go on. I dare you._

Kazuo narrowed his eyes, and held a hand up to silence Mitsuru.

'I am sure that Nanahara means me no harm,' he said patiently, beginning to stand.

Shuya's heart squeezed. Kazuo glanced at him, and briefly smirked.

'Lead the way, Nanahara.'

Shuya turned, head high and back straight, and walked through the desks and legs and bags until he reached the door. In his peripheral he saw his friends, and he nodded briefly in their direction to let them know that he was okay.

He was ready.

He had to be.

Yoshitoki buried his head in his hands.

'Don't fuck up, Shu,' he moaned. Hiroki nudged him.

'C'mon,' he said. 'Someone needs to believe in him. He's _Shuya_ - he'll be fine.'

Shinji nodded. 'He's right. Kiriyama wouldn't be going with him if he didn't _want _to be with him.'

Yoshitoki rubbed the back of his neck. 'Yeah, I guess.' He paused. 'I just don't want him to get even more hurt,' he sighed, dropping his head.

'He won't,' assured Shinji with a reassuring clap on the shoulder. 'You need to give him more credit. He's strong, our Shu. And anyway,' he added, 'by my reckoning, there is approximately a one-hundred percent chance that they'll be fucking by the end of today.'

Yoshitoki punched him.

The three of them watched as Shuya reached the door and left without looking back. A second later, Kazuo caught up, and followed him.

They exchanged an apprehensive glance.

'Do you think they'll do it right away, or do you reckon they'll wait?'

'Mimura, I swear-'

'Calm your tits, Yoshi, I'm just as worried as you.'

Out in the corridor, Shuya refused to look back. He didn't speak. He heard the soft pad of footsteps a small distance behind him, and with his senses on edge with the electric potential of the man he couldn't erase from his mind, following him, trusting him, like Shuya followed and trusted him. Had his head been in less of a tangle, he would have appreciated the symmetry.

He turned and pushed a door open before, apparently satisfied, stepping inside.

Kazuo was unsurprised at Nanahara's choice of room. If he was to make an educated guess, he would have said that the impending conversation was one that Nanahara had been awaiting for some time; it was logical for him to choose the music room.

Nanahara thought that Kazuo didn't notice his body language, or that his preferred drink was Chinese tea over coffee, or that he smiled his goofy smile with only his front teeth, or that he walked with a bounce, or that he slouched when he was with his friends but stood tall when he was with Kazuo - but, as always, Nanahara was wrong. Kazuo saw it all, and most of all, he recognised the influence of music on Nanahara. The way his chin lifted, and his eyes brightened, and his smile broadened - Kazuo saw it all. He knew it. Nanahara needed to be surrounded by the memories and the prospect of music to be strong. Kazuo understood that much.

He stood in the entrance of the music room, and was unsurprised.

Shuya heard Kazuo enter, heard him close the door behind him, and steeling himself with a single, deep breath, he turned to face him.

They watched one another silently.

Shuya spoke first.

'You haven't talked to me,' he said. There was no accusation in his voice; none of the anger or bitterness that Kazuo had expected of a teenager brokenhearted as Nanahara. He supposed he ought not base his predictions entirely on the reactions of the Shimizu girl.

Kazuo stepped inside, and shut the door behind him.

'Correct,' he said shortly. 'What of it?'

Shuya seemed unsure of whether to step towards him or to retreat; by way of seeming compromise, he rocked back and forth on his heels, giving the impression of an uncomfortable bird.

'Are you serious?' he asked uncertainly. 'It's been a month, Kazuo.'

'A month?' he replied mildly, with the air of one about to brush away a harmless, but hideous, beetle. 'Would you care to iterate to me the precise nature of my obligation to you, that would render a _whole month _apart as troubling as it seems to you?'

Shuya winced. _I was right, _he thought sadly. _I'm nothing to him._

Still, he persisted.

'You took me out,' he said, not sure of where he planned to go from there.

Apparently, Kazuo did not intend to aid him. 'Debateable,' he said neutrally, and unhelpfully. 'It could be argued that I planned to go on my own, and that you invited yourself.'

_'What?' _

Shuya shook his head furiously, simultaneously refusing to accept Kazuo's words as true and attempting to rid his mind of extraneous worries to get to the memory of the exact moment Kazuo _explicitly _invited him to the music place with him.

His mind was unfortunately a murky pond of confusion and a stubborn refusal to cooperate. He closed his eyes, furrowed his brow and concentrated harder.

Still nothing.

'No,' he said aloud. 'N-_no, _Kazuo, don't say that.'

'Why shouldn't I?'

'Because you're _lying. _You _asked _me to go with you.'

'Can you prove it?'

'Well - no, but-'

'Then perhaps you ought to develop your point in your own time before infringing on mine with your flawed arguments.' Kazuo paused. 'I suggest you write a comprehensive essay plan on the issue you wish to explore, and take some time to present it to me in an understandable format, and preferably with an iota of conviction on your own part.'

Underneath his sizeable vocabulary and seeming nonchalance, Kazuo knew he was arguing with the _I didn't do it _logic of a child. Shame stirred in him, and he almost chewed his bottom lip - until he caught sight of Nanahara chewing his _own _bottom lip, as he always did. Irritated, he very deliberately pressed his lips together, tightly enough for them to turn white.

Shuya watched his mouth purse, and hopelessly wanted to kiss him.

'Will you tell me why you took me out?'

Kazuo didn't miss a beat. 'My club membership is renewed for free if I introduce someone else.'

'You...'

Shuya broke off. He made himself _look _at Kazuo - properly look - and in his face he saw boredom. In his eyes he saw certainty, and he hoped it was an act, as Hiroki said. Just another act. He looked, and he hoped.

He held his arms aloft, and swiveled his head to scan the whole room in a single, exaggerated movement. 'It's only us, Kazuo,' he said, 'and neither of us is going to think any worse of you if you just _admit-'_

'I will _admit _nothing, Nanahara,' interrupted Kazuo. 'I don't know what you are trying to get me to confess.'

Shuya sagged hopelessly.

'But you - you _know! _I _know _you know!'

'I doubt it would hurt you to remind me what I apparently know.'

'I can't...' Shuya shook his head, distressed. 'I can't _believe _you. The cleverest person I'm ever going to meet, and you can't even _try _to guess why I'm - I'm_ pissed off.'_

'Tell me why you are - as you put it - "pissed off", then.'

'Kazuo!'

'Nanahara?'

_'Stop _it!'

'Stop _what?' _The irritation that began to tinge his voice seemed to surround him in a dark, threatening red. Shuya unconsciously took a step back. 'Pretend I am oblivious, Nanahara. _Tell _me what I ought to know. I assure you, just telling me will not be detrimental to your cause.'

Shuya almost laughed. '"My cause"? Is that a fancy way of making me out to be a creep?'

Genuinely exasperated, Kazuo pinched the bridge of his nose. 'Nanahara, I don't know what you are saying,' he said frankly.

'How-?'

'Stop asking _how. _Just tell me _what.'_

'But you _know!' _Shuya curled his fingers into fists so tight that his palms began to bleed. 'You _know _that I have these - these -' He swallowed. 'You _know _that I h-have these _feelings-'_

_'"Feelings"?' _

Something in him broke. Kazuo laughed hollowly, and anger flared in the pit of his stomach. His hands dropped to his sides and balled into fists, and he began to pace in an attempt to calm himself down. 'Tell me, Nanahara, about these "feelings" of which you speak,' he said, evenly and dangerously. 'Tell me once, and twice, and over and over again until you think I can feel them for myself.' He paused, and turned to him, his expression unreadable and terrifying. _'Go, _Nanahara!' he ordered. _'Make_ me feel!'

Shuya shook with unshed tears. 'Stop,' he whispered.

'No, no,' persisted Kazuo, 'you insisted!'

'You're being cruel, Ka-'

'And only _now,_ you tell me I am cruel!' He stopped, and though it instilled a twang of unwanted pain in his core, he forced himself to watch Nanahara's stricken face. 'Think of me as a machine, Nanahara,' he said. 'Give me consistency and a straight answer and logical reasoning, and I will do what I can to accommodate you.' He took a moment to slow his heavy breathing. When he received no reply, he continued:

'I know nothing of feelings, Nanahara. If you do not know this, then there is no hope for you.'

Shuya swallowed again. 'Is there hope for _us?_' he dared to ask, in a voice so small he wondered if Kazuo would hear him.

He heard him alright. He shrugged. 'How should I know?' he asked flatly. 'I said to you, less than a minute ago, that your precious _feelings_ bypass my spectrum of understanding. To me, you are an object.'

Shuya's heart tightened.

'Until you know and accept that,' Kazuo went on, 'then I should imagine that there is little hope for _us_ at all, whatever you mean by that.'

Shuya's heart cracked.

'Then what is _she?' _he asked, his voice breaking.

Kazuo narrowed his eyes. _'She _too, is an object. She forgot it once, and I had to get rid of her. She is beginning to forget once again, and I suggest you consider that a mere indicator of her own idiocy, rather than my _cruelty.'_ He brushed a spec from his shirt. 'I never lied to her,' he said smoothly, 'and I am not lying to you when I say that I, Kiriyama Kazuo, will never feel for you, Nanahara.'

He didn't even know if he was, indeed, lying. He dismissed it, and instead reinforced to himself that he was being truthful with a vicious reminder of Nanahara's pathetic neediness. He watched his face drop, watched his eyes shimmer, and told himself that the sourness in his chest was nothing close to guilt.

Shuya's heart crumbled, though he supposed it had no right to. He knew, all the time, that Kazuo would never love him, or think of him, or even care if he lived or died. He knew that Kazuo was as good as dead - and yet he loved him, thought of him, cared deeply that he _lived, _even in his state of emotional death where he would never feel the same for him - because Shuya needed him.

With this realisation, he asked through a constricted throat: 'Am _I _allowed to feel for _you?'_

Kazuo paused, surprised.

_'"Allowed"?' _he asked. Shuya nodded, and Kazuo laughed without humour. 'Nanahara, you are unimaginably dense.'

Shuya blinked. 'Huh?'

'Did I not say to you, that I would try to accommodate you?'

Silence. Shuya tried to gain a comprehensible grasp on his thoughts as they ricocheted around his head like tiny little bullets, and failed.

Eventually he tried to speak.

'I-' He coughed. 'I don't- I don't understan-'

Kazuo rolled his eyes. 'For God's sake, Nanahara,' he snapped, in an uncharacteristic display of vulgarity. 'One could feasibly believe that you are _pretending _to be so insufferably stupid.'

Shuya exhaled and steadied his shaking hands. It wasn't his fault that he didn't understand; with a mind as distracted and a condition as fragile as his, it wasn't _fair _to be expected to keep up with Kazuo's schizophrenic changes in mood.

'Why are you saying this? How can you be so _cold?' _He stiffened, eyes widening as something occurred to him. He cocked his head to one side. 'Are you _afraid?' _

'I am not,' Kazuo lied.

'You _are!'_ Shuya stepped closer.

Kazuo tried to retreat, but the back of his knees knocked against a table and he staggered; he straightened up, met Nanahara's earnest, mournful eyes, and scowled.

'You are unbelievably annoying, Nanahara,' he snapped.

Shuya could have laughed. He balled his fists.

_'I'm _annoying?' He snorted. 'You're unbelievable. You don't know how to be honest. You're lying to me - I _know _you-'

_'You _don't know anything, Nanahara,' said Kazuo coldly, putting a sharp end to the verbal sparring. Shuya flinched; Kazuo once again denied the stab of discomfort, and tried to be offended.

'And for future reference, I resent your accusation concerning my inability to be honest.'

'Oh, Kazuo...' Shuya shook his head, disappointed. 'You're lying.'

'Nanahara!'

At his raised voice, Shuya looked up, alarmed, and backed away.

Kazuo bared his teeth, and only then did it dawn on Shuya that something in him had gone; the blank mask, tinged with the barest hint of disdain, was - was just _gone,_ to be replaced by a burning that turned his eyes to bright, terrifying pools of emotion; and like an ancient drawing, or a piece of music, or a passage of writing, Shuya saw Kazuo, and for the first time, was able to read him.

He retreated until his back touched a wall; he glanced around, and saw with despair that Kazuo had him genuinely cornered. Kazuo took slow, deliberate steps towards him as fire froze and ice burned and rain fell and storms roared in the uncharted heaviness of his expression.

'I get you,' said Shuya, keeping the tremor out of his voice with immense effort.

Kazuo stopped. The fires burned. 'Oh?' he said archly. 'Have you really?'

Shuya leaned against the wall, feeling his legs begin to shake. He swallowed. 'You don't know what you want.'

Kazuo opened his mouth to speak, but Shuya rushed in before he could.

'Let me finish,' he said quickly. 'Please.'

A long, rattling sigh slipped through Kazuo's lips. 'Ten,' he said flatly.

Shuya blinked. 'Huh?'

'Nine.'

He closed his eyes and willed words to his tongue.

'Eight.'

'You're stuck between wanting to feel, or -' He swallowed again, embarrassed. '-or even _love, _and wanting to feel nothing, so you can never love anyone.'

Kazuo paused.

'Seven.'

'People are a game to you. Most of all, people who feel for you.' He stopped, expecting Kazuo to say the next number, but was instead met with silence.

Disconcerted, he continued. 'You're - you're fascinated by people who feel. And I don't think you know how you feel about - uh - _feeling. _I mean,' he explained hastily, 'in other people. You don't know if you're disgusted by it, or if you envy it.'

Kazuo snorted. 'Six.'

'No one is important to you. You don't know what it is to care about someone. You don't have someone you'd sacrifice yourself for.' He thought about it for a moment. 'Not even in a normal way. You don't have _friends_.'

Realising what he'd just said, Shuya panicked; he watched Kazuo with bated breath, afraid of his reaction in the face of what could be considered a heinous insult.

Kazuo shrugged.

'Five.'

'Uh...' Shuya rubbed his forehead. 'People are just guinea-pigs to you. Take Hirono-'

Kazuo rolled his eyes.

'-you didn't _care _about s-sex, or any of it, until she gave you-' He ducked his head, blushing. 'She gave you the opportunity to - um - _explore _it.' He peeked up, and found Kazuo forcing his features into their default impassivity.

'You did your experiments, you did your research, and then you threw her away.'

The phrase _like a used condom _sprung to mind, but Shuya thought it might not be appropriate.

'Four.'

'She was a tool, ' he said, more quickly. 'She just gave you an opportunity and you took it - and _I've _been dropping hints and making an idiot of myself and basically _telling _you that I like you, and I'm just an opportunity as well, and- and-'

'Three.'

He closed his eyes.

'And now,' he said quietly, 'you'll either take advantage of me, like you took advantage of her, or you'll walk away from me again, and I don't know which I would hate more.'

Kazuo flinched.

'T-two.'

'I want you to like me,' said Shuya. He opened his eyes and met Kazuo's with a rawness that left him drained.

They considered one another.

Shuya sighed. 'I want you to like me,' he said again, 'and I want to be a singer. Isn't that funny?'

Kazuo cocked his head to one side.

_Funny?_

'Yes, funny,' said Shuya absently. 'Sometimes I wonder if I'm damned to want what's so improbable that there's no point me wanting anything at all.' He swallowed. 'I want what will never happen.'

Kazuo approached him, coming closer and closer until their noses were almost touching.

'One,' he said.

Shuya's breath came heavier than it usually did.

'If you could feel just a bit of what I feel,' he said, 'then you'd understand.'

'Then in plain words,' said Kazuo, 'tell me exactly in what capacity you _feel.'_

The two men watched each other, wide eyes to narrow eyes, and as if on impulse, Shuya lurched forward, shaky with nerves and fear and months of pent-up frustration and love and affection and a thousand other feelings he couldn't name, and he aimed his lips in the rough direction of Kazuo's.

He jerked his head away.

_Oh no you don't, Nanahara._

He wore rejection like a shroud, Kazuo observed. His wide eyes widened further, he seemed to physically shrink in on himself, and his gaze slid down to his feet.

He felt utterly wretched. He bit his lip until it bled, and was about to push past to leave when Kazuo blocked his way, pressing his hand on the wall by his head. He looked up.

Kazuo smirked. 'You only had to say.'

With that, he leaned in and kissed him.

Shuya thought he was going to cry - more so when Kazuo pulled away again.

'Is something the matter, Nanahara?'

He spoke as though his heart was not lodged in his throat, beating away faster than any heart ever should, and when he saw the shimmer in Nanahara's big, stupid eyes, he had already raised a comforting hand to brush his cheek before his head could intervene.

His knuckles swept gently across his skin, and he lifted his fingertips to press softly against the prominent cheekbone that showed through. His other hand rose to grasp the other side of his thin face, and he slipped a finger under Nanahara's chin to lift up his eyes to face him.

Shuya felt empty. If he had been thinking properly, he would have compared the sensation to that of an electric short-circuiting, or gridlock; so much was happening in his head, that nothing was moving at all. He met Kazuo's eyes blankly, and briefly wondered if this was how it felt to be him.

The thought triggered a flood; the dam in his mind splintered, then snapped completely. Thoughts of _experiments _and _feeling _came back to him, and as he chewed his already-broken lip, he realised that Kazuo was willingly touching him.

He closed his eyes momentarily and leaned into his hand.

'Use me,' he whispered.

The touch was gone. He opened his eyes.

'What?'

Shuya raised a hand as though to grasp Kazuo's, but thought better of it.

'I don't need you to feel for me,' he explained simply. 'I just need you.'

Kazuo sighed, and in a fit of mourning for the other man's stupidity, rested his forehead against Shuya's. 'Not that it concerns me, but you are a fool, Nanahara,' he said quietly. 'Why throw yourself away like this? Are you really this much of a masochist, or are you just a moron?'

Shuya ignored his last comment. 'I'm not throwing myself away. I would do anything for this.' He paused, and braced himself. 'I would do anything for you.'

To his surprise, Kazuo shut his eyes and jerked his head away. 'Don't.'

'Don't choose _now _to start feeling guilty, Kazuo.'

'I don't feel guilty.'

'Then _prove _it.'

Kazuo lifted both his hands, grasped Shuya by the back of his head, and pulled his lips up to his again.

Nanahara had cracked lips that tasted of blood and worry, and Kazuo kissed him all the harder to get more of it. He felt hands grabbing clumsily at his waist, and had his eyes been open, he would have rolled them, but instead he ignored the world, bit by bit, until there was nothing but Nanahara and Nanahara's mouth and Nanahara's hands and the way one of them had moved from his waist to press against his chest and _when did that happen _and Nanahara's teeth scraping against Kazuo's bottom lip and then his knees buckled and he tightened his grip on Nanahara's shoulders to keep himself upright, and he kissed him harder to cover up his temporary embarrassment.

Shuya tried at first to organise his thoughts into an order in which he could later reflect, but when he felt Kazuo stumble against his chest - _not _deliberately - he gave up. He didn't _need _to be able to remember the specifics when his friends asked what happened. _They _didn't need to know that Kazuo tasted of cinnamon and expensive wine; or the way it felt as their breath mingled when they broke apart, gasping; or the hypnotic, dizzy elation that filled his body when Kazuo kissed him again, and didn't push him away with the talk of "that's enough" or "happy now?" that he had expected. He tightened his hold on his waist and, feeling daring, slid his other hand even higher up Kazuo's chest and finally, since he had caught his first glimpse months before in the very room in which they stood, satisfied his longing. Without breaking the rhythmic pattern of the movement of their lips, Shuya ran a finger up the length of Kazuo's white, endlessly soft throat - following the indent at the base of his neck, ghosting over the ridges of his Adam's apple-

A hand covered his own, and tugged it back down to the space between their chests.

He opened his heavy eyes.

'That tickles,' said Kazuo.

He didn't reply. They watched one another, silent save for their deep, heavy breathing.

Shuya ached to ask the question that screamed throughout his head, leaving him no room to appreciate even fleetingly the way Kazuo's eyes were softer than he had ever seen them - softer than he would have thought possible.

'What happens now?' he asked tentatively.

Kazuo sighed, and only when he pulled his hand away from Shuya's limp fingers did Shuya notice that they had ever been intertwined.

'I do not like that question,' he declared halfheartedly.

Shuya fixed him with a tired, exasperated look. Kazuo sighed again and reached a decision that was sure to benefit them both.

'Come with me, Nanahara,' he said quietly. 'Cut class with me again.'

Shuya grimaced, cast his eyes downwards and, taking a deep breath, braced himself. He glanced up to meet Kazuo's gaze.

'Just to be clear,' he said, in a voice more strong than he was feeling, 'this is you asking me to go with you. You're not going to turn around to me later and tell me that I forced myself on you, are you?'

He told himself that he imagined the wince that marred Kazuo's lips and eyes.

Kazuo had the surge of remorse under wraps before even a second had passed. He smoothed his features and, maintaining that the gesture was entirely for Nanahara's benefit, reached and pressed a hand to the other man's chest, feeling his heart thumping underneath his shirt, and then pressed his fist up against his own.

'I won't,' he said, hoping that he was telling the truth. 'I promise.'

* * *

Surprise.  
(Sorry for the wait. Feel free to admonish me accordingly in the little review box just down there. No, not there, cheeky. Just there.)


	12. Chapter 11: Dudesweat

As they walked, Shuya was overwhelmingly aware of his hands, swinging uselessly at his sides.

He glanced at Kazuo's hands, and then around at the street down which they walked. It was the kind of street with a reputation; it homed generations of fictional monsters and ghouls, invented by worried parents to warn their children to stay away. Crammed on either side by rickety houses in varying states of decay, it was easy to understand their concern.

An aged piece of graffiti proclaimed to the world that Takeshi Moon-sin was a filthy half-breed who should fuck off back to Korea. Shuya sighed, and walked on.

Kazuo spoke abruptly: 'Here.'

Shuya started.

'What?'

Kazuo fixed him with a condescending look.

'We're here, Nanahara.'

Shuya blinked at the racist abuse on the wall and wondered if this was Kazuo's idea of a joke.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a tugging on his sleeve.

'Come on.'

Dazed and very, very puzzled - as to why Kazuo brought him down this street in the first place, let alone why he was being led to a house with the approximate appearance of a concrete shack, directly opposite the graffiti. He hung back, and let Kazuo go ahead.

'I'm letting you check for booby traps,' he said.

Kazuo snorted. 'It is considered impolite to insult the host's living quarters, Nanahara.'

Shuya watched Kazuo bring out a small bunch of keys. He found he wasn't surprised that Kazuo should have access to one of these houses; looking around him, at the silent loneliness of the street around them, it had Kazuo's stamp on every corner. Of _course _he would choose to inhabit a desolate, unremarkable little home. Why wouldn't he?

'People don't come here,' explained Kazuo as he leaned back to allow Shuya to step inside. 'People leave me alone.'

Shuya found himself in a disarmingly clean, tidy living room, several couches in various shades of cream and beige tidily arranged around the perimeter. A small, plain coffee table sat in the middle, a small pile of newspapers arranged on top; Shuya quickly scanned the top one as Kazuo shut the door behind them. It was from the day before. He glanced around him, and guessed that this house was regularly used, despite its showroom-level, minimalist, orderly perfection. Compared to its grey, crumbling exterior, it hinted at the surreal.

Still bent over the coffee table as he absently read yesterday's headlines, Shuya was jolted from his observations by a hand pressed gently to his shoulder. He straightened and turned back to Kazuo, with his soft skin and unreadable expression and still-bruised lips.

'You live here,' said Shuya.

Kazuo cocked his head to one side.

'I feel like that ought to be a question,' he said, 'and not a statement.'

Shuya frowned.

'I'm not great with the ins and outs of my own word choices.'

'Touche.'

'Kazuo?'

'Yes?'

_'Do _you live here?'

He paused. 'Yes,' he said eventually. 'Most of the time, at least.'

Shuya blinked. 'I heard that you live in a mansion,' he said, through his vague, goofy smile.

Kazuo was ultimately distracted by his teeth. White, and straight, but out of proportion with the rest of his face. Endearingly large, it seemed as though his mouth was too big for the rest of him. Kazuo allowed himself a small smile at the accuracy of the analogy.

Eventually he caught up with Nanahara's probing. 'It isn't a mansion,' he said patiently. 'Perhaps significantly more impressive, architecturally, than the masses of cardboard cutout apartment complexes that the majority of Japan seems to inhabit.'

Shuya looked around him. 'This isn't a mansion.'

'No, it isn't.'

Kazuo hesitated.

'This is _my _place.'

Shuya didn't miss a beat. 'Then what's the mansion?'

'It isn't a mansion.'

'The architectural thing, then. What you said it was. Whose is it?'

He hesitated again.

'It belongs to my mother,' he said, and although his voice remained calm and even, he spoke so softly that Shuya had to lean in to hear him.

Kazuo watched cogs turn in Nanahara's dimwitted head, and decided then and there that he did not like the direction in which their conversation was going. Just when he opened his mouth - no doubt to ask some inane, personal question that Kazuo would be obliged to answer to ensure his cooperation - Kazuo dipped his head and, before he could speak, kissed him.

Just to shut him up, naturally. Kazuo didn't enjoy Nanahara's surprised gasp, or the pressure against his own swollen lips, or Nanahara's hands bunching into fists and catching on the material of Kazuo's shirt - and he especially didn't enjoy Nanahara's quiet moan, sounding against Kazuo's mouth and sending vibrations tickling down to his stomach.

Their lips parted with a wet "pop". He jerked his head in the direction of a door between two of the couches.

'Get in,' he said quietly, his voice deep and his stomach clenched and his eyes roving Nanahara's back as he turned.

Shuya walked hunched, simultaneously grateful for and embarrassed by the raging erection that pressed against his trousers, rubbing against the metal of his fly and throbbing painfully with the promise and potential of Kazuo's order. He walked, lopsided to the door, twisted the handle, and almost fell in.

Kazuo's bedroom was as innocuous and void of personality as the living room - and yet, as he took in the neutral bedsheets and standard lamp and plain desk, Shuya knew that he would not have expected anything different. He closed his eyes, and when Kazuo followed and closed the door behind him, plunging them both into the gloominess of semi-darkness, his breathing quickened.

They stood in silence for a moment, and Kazuo took the opportunity to observe him; hunched, eyes squeezed shut, arms folded awkwardly over his crotch, breathing audible even when he was several feet away. Kazuo flicked the lights onto dim.

'Do you trust me?' he asked, approaching.

Shuya relaxed. 'Yes.'

Kazuo slid his arms around Nanahara's waist and, from behind, pressed a kiss to his neck.

'Wrong answer,' he said quietly, unbuckling Nanahara's belt.

The air in Shuya's lungs promptly left. He squeezed shut his eyes even tighter and forced himself to focus on Kazuo - his arms encircling his torso, breath sweeping the back of his neck, hands making short work of the clasps around his middle until his trousers - his grey, pressed, worn school trousers - pooled on the ground at his feet. He shivered, goosepimples erupting on the skin of his legs, and leaned back against Kazuo.

Kazuo palmed Nanahara's hips with the delicacy of one handling a priceless, rare valuable, and again, pressed his lips to the skin between his neck and shoulder. Nanahara sighed, as one would sigh upon being freed from bonds they did not know were holding them down; he cracked his eyes open imperceptibly and watched the ceiling without seeing anything at all.

Kazuo inhaled and, sliding his hands to the centre of Nanahara's stomach, tightened his hold on him. Gently, he pressed his hips against him.

Shuya's breath caught.

Wrapped up in a veritable cocoon of sensations - lightheaded, short of breath, turned on by Kazuo and even more turned on by the hardness pushing against his lower back - Shuya quietly hyperventilated as Kazuo undid each of his shirt buttons, one by one, fingers tickling their way up Shuya's stomach and chest until they stroked his neck - and even then, they reached higher and higher until they stroked his lips delicately. Beginning to shake, Shuya groaned quietly.

The fingers, the hands, the arms were gone. Suddenly much colder, he turned to see where Kazuo had gone to - and found him skirting around to the other side of the bed. With a surprising lack of grace, he sprawled on top of the covers.

Kazuo jerked his head to the bedroom door. 'Bathroom's on the left,' he said shortly. 'Take a minute.'

Aware of his uncomfortable state of undress, Shuya shuffled out as quickly as he could, unsure of what he was supposed to do.

He found the bathroom; locking the door and tugging the light cord, he caught his own reflection, and started at how afraid he looked. He reminded himself that he _wanted _this. He _wanted _Kazuo. At the thought, a smile found its way to his lips, and in spite of his wide, scared eyes and shaking limbs, he did his best to be calm.

He pulled his trousers off his feet, shrugged his shirt off his shoulders, and dumped them both on the white cabinet next to the sink. He flicked his thin stomach and briefly mourned the loss of his muscles - and yet, as he searched for a clean flannel, the enormity of the situation hit him with the force of a sledgehammer. He straightened too quickly, hitting his funny bone on the side of the bathtub.

Rubbing his elbow to stop himself swearing, he began to shake again as the individual elements of his _here and now _shot to the forefront of his mind in frantic bursts.

He, Shuya, had ended up in Kazuo Kiriyama's personal living quarters. He had slipped past rumours of a mansion and servants and grand gardens, and found himself in Kazuo's private place - he snorted - and who valued their privacy more than Kazuo Kiriyama?

But not only that - he had inexplicably talked his way into some kind of physical - dare he think it - _relationship. _The word broadened his smile and lightened his thoughts, but the repercussions dimmed them again.

Kazuo didn't do _relationships. _Shuya knew that much.

'I told him to use me,' he said softly. His reflection mouthed the same in response.

He rubbed his eyes.

'I told him to use me,' he said again, with more strength. 'If that's the most he'll give-' He swallowed painfully. '-then that's fine. That's fine by me.'

From the other side of the wall, Kazuo rolled his eyes. It figured that Nanahara, of all people, would feel it necessary to articulate his internal monologues. He made a note to mention the thinness of the walls at some point.

Shuya bit his lip, and bent to remove his underwear.

He felt numb. With heavy, shaking hands, he cleaned himself up as best he could - though what did he know, it wasn't as if he'd done it before - and he was beginning to think to himself that he ought to have done some research into the specifics of what the ever-living fuck was about to happen. As he kicked off his shoes and socks, he hoped fervently that Kazuo had a better idea of what to do than he did.

Standing naked and vulnerable in an unfamiliar house, he briefly toyed with the idea of putting his clothes back on before he caught himself. He didn't want to give Kazuo more reason to laugh at him.

Gathering every scrap of courage and self-esteem he could muster, he took a final glance at himself in the mirror before unlocking the door and leaving the bathroom, steeling himself with determination to get in there with Kazuo and not make a fool of himself again.

He promptly stumbled over a chair leg and tripped gracelessly into the bedroom.

Kazuo looked up with mild surprise, which quickly dissipated into wry satisfaction; he quickly concluded that a naked Nanahara was his favourite kind of Nanahara.

He stood, and moved smoothly to where Shuya was standing, frozen against the doorframe, and in one quick, easy movement, pulled him against his body and ravaged his neck.

The material of Kazuo's clothes scratched Shuya's skin, and as Kazuo kissed the delicate part of his neck just above his pulse, and as Shuya's head fell back while the rest of him collapsed forward into Kazuo's hold, and as his mouth opened and closed silently, he scrabbled weakly at the loosened collar of Kazuo's shirt.

Almost impatiently, Kazuo let go of Shuya's waist and separated his lips from his neck for long enough to tug the intrusive material over his head; by the time it hit the floor, he had seized Nanahara's lips with his own, with an eagerness that embarrassed him a little. He reminded himself that Nanahara was a vessel - for experimentation, for sexual gratification, for whatever he wanted. After all, the words had come straight from his own mouth: _Use me. _He had explicit permission.

Shuya felt Kazuo smile, and his heart soared among the clouds. _He likes this, _he thought happily. _He likes me._

Kazuo pressed a hand to Nanahara's back, and ran it down the length of the bumps of his spine that, in a world where there was nothing but the two of them and the space between them, felt the size of mountains.

He pulled away gently, looked into Nanahara's glazed eyes, and forced his expression into neutral.

'You seem thin-'

In a fit of self-conscious, ashamed panic, Shuya pulled Kazuo back to him before he could even finish speaking. Shuya didn't need to hear, again, of how skinny he had become. It was something he had to work on.

Standing with his arms wrapped around Kazuo's waist, and his lips wrapped around Kazuo's, he tried to push his worries to the back of his mind. Unfortunately, he quickly realised that his own nakedness did little to make him feel better.

_Not a great time to be feeling insecure, Shu, _he thought wryly.

He focused instead on the feeling of Kazuo's chest against his; the warmth, the direct warmth, and the impossible softness of skin on skin that was unbelievably more satisfying than the coarseness of a shirt. Feeling his hardness throb against his stomach, he wondered briefly what Kazuo thought of it.

Nanahara's penis pressing between their bodies, to Kazuo's puzzled frustration, turned him on greatly. It didn't make sense for another's arousal to, in turn, arouse _him._

It was all getting a bit too interpersonal. If Nanahara didn't want to acknowledge his weight-loss in the midst of foreplay, then that was his problem; Kazuo, however, had his own agenda.

He patiently let Nanahara open and close his mouth clumsily in what he assumed was an approximation of _kissing_, all but spelling out his inexperience, before reclaiming control.

He placed a hand firmly on Nanahara's bony chest, and lightly pushed him away. He allowed himself a moment of satisfaction at the crushed, childish disappointment that clouded Nanahara's face.

He cleared his throat.

'The distribution of clothing appears to be uneven,' he declared, fiddling with his belt. 'Excuse me.'

Shuya's eyes widened to beyond their capacity, blinklessly watching Kazuo smoothly kick off his shoes, then his trousers, then his pants, all with the air of one doing something as ordinary and unremarkable as the washing up.

Shuya exhaled.

'God, you're perfect,' he breathed accidentally.

Kazuo smirked. 'I was aware.'

Quickly enough for it to bypass Shuya's awareness, Kazuo took him by the waist and, before a second had passed, found himself lying face-up on the bed. His breathing quickened, and he let Kazuo adjust the pillows under his head for him, unable to move his own limbs.

Kazuo licked his lips, distinctly enjoying the sight of Nanahara, naked and aroused and on his bed. He joined him, and before he had time to react, straddled his waist.

He looked down, into his eyes, and asked him again if he trusted him.

Shuya said, 'Yes, I do.'

Kazuo slowly, with great control, leaned down, resting his weight on his hands on either side of Nanahara's body until their chests were millimeters apart, and their eyes locked onto each other.

He smiled.

'Wrong.'

With his lips, he turned Nanahara's face to the side, and immediately bit down on the already-marked neck that he left exposed. As Nanahara intermittently gasped and sighed and moaned raggedly, Kazuo kissed his way down his body, leaving a trail of kiss-marks and bitemarks that seemed to burn; it felt like a tattoo on Shuya's skin, left behind for him to remember forever the time that he wanted someone, and when they wanted him too.

Shuya shivered feverishly when Kazuo kissed his stomach, and froze entirely with a guttural moan when the hand that had been rubbing small circles on his inner thigh slid up to grasp his throbbing erection. Small, wheezing noises burst from between his lips, and he struggled to calm his breathing.

'Relax, Nanahara,' soothed Kazuo. 'Breathe in. Out.'

'Sh-shut up,' Shuya gasped, his legs shaking and his hips beginning to thrust uncontrollably as he was simultaneously terrified and unbelievably horny. Kazuo's hand, wrapped around his most sensitive part with reassuring firmness, was surely making him lose his mind.

'P-p-please,' he begged, '_please _move your hand.'

Had he been more aware, he may even have been embarrassed at how close he already was, how he was already begging.

As it was, neither seemed to care.

Kazuo complied; responding to its twitches and aroused surges, he slid his hand up and down his member, intermittently tightening and loosening his grip as Nanahara twitched and groaned beneath him.

Kazuo focused on what was new to him. _Another man's erect penis _was obvious, but he was surprised by the little things that he had not expected: the noises he was making, and the difference in pitch and tone; the feeling of the hairs on Nanahara's legs scratching against his sides; the persevering sense of shyness, or holding back, that made quite a difference from the passionate abandon of the sex to which he was accustomed. He kissed Nanahara's hipbone in a fit of gratitude that Nanahara was Nanahara, and slipped his lips over the head of his erection in case he didn't get the message.

Shuya's eyes rolled into the back of his head, and his moans caught in his throat.

It was interesting, Kazuo thought. Previous experience led him to believe that a person's arousal was in direct correlation with how vocal they were; trust Nanahara to be so noisy all the time that, when it came to it, he was reduced to inaudible gasps and squeaks. Kazuo took Shuya completely into his mouth and chuckled softly.

The vibrations elicited a glottal exclamatory from the back of Shuya's throat. At the back of _Kazuo's _throat, Shuya felt a heat and pressure on his cock that made the previous three years of hasty sessions with his right hand fade into a series of embarrassing, insignificant nothings by comparison.

Shuya's body went slack, save for the essentials that were rock hard in Kazuo's hot, wet mouth, and he limply grasped at the sheets with his fingers, gasping shallowly.

Kazuo sucked harder; Shuya's hips jerked.

All too soon, his hips began to thrust frantically against his will; his breathing shuddered, his eyes fluttered, his body shook, and in the very pit of a part of his body he didn't know the name of, a match struck; the familiar feeling began as tiny spasms of shivering coldness and quickly grew into spiralling, burning waves of building intensity, overriding his rationality and turning his breath to irregular pants and honest-to-God orgasmic moans in varying degrees of wantonness - the likes of which Shuya, in a small part of his somewhat preoccupied brain, was embarrassed to have coming out of his mouth.

'K-Kaz-'

Kazuo teased him up to the top of the tallest mountain and dangled him gently over the precipice. A pained, guttural moan ripped through his lips as he started the final descent, fists clenched and toes curled-

Kazuo stopped.

Shuya wailed.

_'Hey!'_

He clenched his fists against the gargantuan frustration - both mental and physical - and briefly toyed with the idea of finishing himself off. (God knew it wouldn't take long.)

As if he knew what he was thinking, Kazuo took both of Shuya's hands, twining their fingers against the mattress as he leaned down and kissed him.

When they parted, Shuya's need was less; he gazed up at Kazuo dreamily and scowled without meaning it.

'You're impossible,' he said.

'You're insufferable,' said Kazuo. 'Now hush, Nanahara.'

'At least call me by my first n-'

'Do you want to top?'

The end of Shuya's sentence caught in his throat.

'Wh- _huh?'_

'Or shall I?'

'I don't...' He went to rub his eyes with his knuckles, but his hands were still trapped underneath Kazuo's. 'I don't know,' he said hoarsely, honestly.

Kazuo sighed. 'You aren't very well informed, are you?'

Shuya quickly reached up to steal a kiss before he could say anything else. 'Don't be mean.'

Kazuo smiled wickedly. 'You make it so much fun, Nanahara.'

'Kazuo...' Shuya ducked his head as best he could, given the circumstances, and blushed furiously. 'I don't know what I'm doing,' he whispered. 'I've never-'

'I guessed.'

His eyes lowered, Shuya missed the almost-fond smile that graced Kazuo's lips briefly. He leaned down and kissed his shoulder softly.

'We don't have to do anything more, if you so wish.'

Kazuo almost looked around to see who had spoken before realising it had been him. He blinked.

Evidently, he was more surprised by his own selflessness than Nanahara was, for he immediately shook his head, hard enough to jolt the bed on which they lay.

'No,' said Shuya strongly. 'I want to.'

Roused from his self-deprecating internal lecture on the importance of putting his own wants and desires (namely, Nanahara) over the wishes of anyone else (also, namely Nanahara), Kazuo lifted a hand from where it restrained Nanahara's, and reached to the door of the small cupboard adjacent to the bed.

'Then,' he said, 'perhaps I ought to. Top, I mean.'

Shuya raised his recently freed hand to cover his pink face.

'Yeah,' he said, with a short laugh. 'I'd only mess it up.'

'I doubt that very much,' countered Kazuo quietly, lifting himself to kneel above Nanahara as he clutched a couple of distinct items in his hand. Shuya looked him up and down, and thought he was truly glorious - and then he squinted at what he was holding.

'Were you planning for this, by any chance?'

For a few seconds, Kazuo struggled to answer. The truth was that he _had _planned for it, and had sought out the necessary supplies accordingly - but to admit as much to Nanahara was a fair distance outside his comfort zone. Heat flooded his cheeks.

'You know,' he said quickly, 'you'll be more comfortable if you just let me use them, rather than questioning their presence. And trust me,' he added, 'you will want me to use them.'

Shuya's erection twitched. He'd almost forgotten about it. He nodded.

'Yeah. Yeah, fine. Okay.' He took a deep, nervous breath. 'Okay.'

Kazuo glanced down.

'I think you should turn around,' he said.

Shuya's nerves rocketed. He shook as Kazuo straightened up, giving him room to turn facedown on the mattress, and he shook as Kazuo gently lowered himself to rest on Shuya's upper legs, and he shook more when Kazuo placed a hand on his back.

'You need to relax,' said Kazuo, as kindly as he could manage.

'Easier said than done,' mumbled Shuya, shifting his hands to grasp the sheets underneath him. His shoulder blades protruded sharply from his back, and Kazuo gently rubbed the skin between them with his palm as he watched his worried face, side-on against the pillow.

'Try, Nanahara.'

Shuya closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried.

Kazuo's hand, pressed reassuringly against his back, slowly massaged its way down to the bottom of his spine, and bit by bit, Shuya's muscles untensed. Underneath Kazuo's warm touch, and in the heaviness of the air in the room around them, the shivers gradually died down.

When the hand went away, he kept his eyes closed. He pictured Kazuo, stroking him where he wanted to be stroked, treating him the way he wanted to be treated, and when a warm, slicked finger nudged his entrance, he was about as relaxed as he could have wished.

Kazuo hesitated.

Through slack lips, Shuya told him to hurry up.

He pushed in. Shuya sucked in a breath sharply through his teeth and his heart raced. He struggled to return to his state of relax.

To say that the feeling was unfamiliar was a given, but Shuya had no other way of putting it. Unfamiliar, and not altogether comfortable, but not entirely unpleasant either.

Kazuo pushed his finger in further. Shuya's erection jerked against the hard mattress; he lifted his hips up to give it room to function.

Kazuo's own erection pressed almost painfully against his stomach. With one hand holding Nanahara's waist steady, he slowly pushed another finger in.

Shuya's eyes scrunched; he bit his lips as beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and his body acclimatised to the new sensations centred intensely around his cock and ass. He pressed his face to the pillow and released a muffled, low whine.

Kazuo stretched Nanahara with his fingers as gently as he was able. He felt his shivers, heard his quiet moans, and he kissed his shoulder as he tried to be indifferent to it all.

He let go of Nanahara's waist with a murmured request to keep still, and with a little difficulty he uncapped the small, white bottle on the side table, and hesitated.

Unsure of how much was appropriate to use, he briefly considered asking for Nanahara's advice, but quickly dismissed it on the grounds of Nanahara knowing even less than him.

_In this instance, _he thought, pouring liberal amounts directly onto the swelled head of his own penis, _quantity is probably valued over economy._

He quickly palmed his erection, spreading the oil evenly and trying to warm it to a comfortable temperature. He looked down, at Nanahara's body, so utterly exposed and vulnerable, that he almost wanted to warn him against allowing himself to be penetrated in this way.

He winced. The clinical indifference he aspired to in his head was at odds with the reality of what was happening. For a minute - it only had to be a few minutes - Kazuo tried to dim the switch in his brain.

He leaned down, and kissed Nanahara's bony spine.

'How are you feeling?' he asked into his skin.

Shuya made a noise of general assent. Kazuo kissed him again and straightened up.

He took his fingers out. Despite the semi-discomfort of their presence, Shuya automatically jerked his hips back in an attempt to return them there.

Kazuo lined himself up and with a pause so small it was barely noticeable, pushed the head into him.

'Ow,' said Shuya.

Kazuo immediately, instinctively offered to pull out.

'No.' He spoke shortly, between shallow breaths. 'Don't. You. Fucking dare.'

'Yes. Of course. Sorry.'

Shuya hesitated. 'Just... go slowly.'

Kazuo wanted to lean forwards, take him by the chin and kiss him with enough heat to extinguish a little of the fire that burned underneath his skin, but for fear of hurting him more, instead palmed the bones of his hips and gently, gently, pulled him towards him.

Shuya forced himself to breath.

In.

It seemed silly to be thinking it, being such an obvious thought, but the plethora of new sensations was too much to put into words.

Out.

It hurt. That much was obvious. He gritted his teeth and buried his face, once again, in the pillow.

In.

'This is happening,' he said faintly, slightly muffled.

'Yes,' said Kazuo. 'This is happening.'

Was he gasping?

Out.

Kazuo fought the instinct to pound into Nanahara's delicate, inexperienced body. He looked down at where they were joined, panting slightly, and had to admit that, unlike the feigned-eroticism of his sessions with Hirono, Nanahara had him genuinely beguiled.

If he had cast his mind to it, he would have guessed that admitting how intrigued he was by the man with him was as close as he would come to admitting that he liked him.

In.

Shuya hissed quietly, and grasped the pillow tightly.

'Stop,' he said.

Kazuo stopped.

'Just... stay.'

Slowly, taking care to not push himself further in, he leaned down, meeting Nanahara's warm back with his chest. He kissed his shoulder, and felt his shiver.

Shuya pulled back from the pillow.

'I'd like to turn around,' he said hoarsely.

Kazuo kissed his shoulder again, more quickly.

'It will hurt more.'

'I can handle it.'

Misgivings abound, Kazuo helped him turn onto his back, ducking under his leg as they wordlessly agreed to rearrange themselves without detaching.

It was a curious feeling for both of them.

Kazuo met Nanahara's gaze, and he was briefly lost.

Shuya pointedly nudged his hips against Kazuo's. He pulled out, then pushed in again.

For Shuya and Kazuo, time passed in a mess of lips and gasps and tangled limbs, and a thin layer of sweat coated the two of them in the aftermath as they shivered, lying side by side.

His eyes shut against the exhaustion that threatened to consume him, Shuya tentatively reached for Kazuo's hand, and when he felt fingers reaching out to twine between his, he smiled.

Had his eyes been open, he would have seen the way Kazuo was looking over at him, an identical, serene smile gracing his lips as well.

* * *

I love you too.  
Have a poem.

**R**eviews make me happy  
**E**very single one  
**V**ery very happy  
**I** promise  
**E**h, running out of inspiration  
**W**hatever, please review


	13. Chapter 12: First for Everything

Days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. Summer gave way to a baked, rustic autumn, and as the leaves that coated the pavements began to grow a frost as winter approached once more, Shuya gradually filled his clothing again and Kazuo remained frustratingly impenetrable.

Shuya stood half-naked in what he had begun to see as _their _bedroom, and gaped, one leg in his trousers.

'What do you mean, "you're not coming"? You said you would!'

Kazuo shrugged. Lying horizontal under the rumpled covers, the action wasn't as obvious as it could otherwise have been, but the message was clear.

'So what?' he clarified. 'You are perfectly capable of performing whether or not I am there watching.'

'That isn't the point,' said Shuya impatiently. 'You said, and I quote, "On my life, I promise I will be there".' He scowled. 'Unquote.'

Kazuo sighed, a long, rattling, exhausted sigh. 'I have changed my mind, Nanahara,' he said flatly. 'Sorry.'

'You're not, though.'

'No, I suppose I'm not.'

'But...'

He opened and closed his mouth, lost for words.

He'd promised. Kazuo had explicitly promised.

Kazuo snorted when Shuya reminded him again.

'Of course,' he drawled, that arrogant, blank look that Shuya had not seen for months back on his infuriating, aristocratic face. 'Of course I promised. If I remember correctly, you were about to give me oral gratificat-'

'For fuck's sake!'

'Were you not?'

'You said what I wanted you to say so I'd suck your dick?'

Kazuo smiled. It was answer enough. Shuya physically shook with frustration, mingled with the sharp pangs of hurt and the beginnings of betrayal.

'You're fucked up.'

'You are hopelessly naive.'

Shuya swallowed painfully.

'Maybe so,' he said, 'but you still said you'd come.'

'And if I remember correctly, I did.' The layer of slime coating his expression was almost visible; to Shuya, he dripped with smugness.

Shuya's eyes prickled. He felt his lip begin to wobble, and he clenched his teeth.

'You're sick,' he said. He spoke quietly, for fear of the break in his voice being more audible than it had to be. 'You're totally sick.'

Kazuo cocked his head to one side. 'Don't tell me you're getting yourself worked up about this, Nanahara.'

Shuya sobbed once, turned and left.

The second he heard the door slam, Kazuo tried to smile. Unfortunately, it gave way to a hard grimace before any kind of satisfaction had time to manifest.

Nanahara was getting too close. Too familiar.

That was what he told himself.

He was forgetting the first rule of an experiment.

_Keep a safe distance._

That was what he told himself.

He dressed. He left.

By the time he arrived, the hall was buzzing. The usually sparsely occupied music house was, for the first time, full to capacity, and were it not for a sharp couple of jabs in the ribs of the people in front, leaving them spluttering on the ground, Kazuo would likely have been denied entry. He swept into the elusive building and was unsurprised to be greeted by the over-familiar doorman.

'Mr. Kiriyama!'

'Suzuki.'

A hardness in his voice conveyed to the doorman that, more than usual, Kazuo Kiriyama had no patience for aimless chatter. His smile wavered only slightly, and he tripped over himself in an effort to open the door for him.

'Come right in, Sir.'

Under the cover of the atmospheric darkness, the effect lessened slightly by the bright squares of dozens of mobile phones in the hands of every person under the age of forty, Kazuo quickly scanned the room. He clocked Nanahara's friends almost immediately, bunched together in a noisy, infantile mob directly in front of the stage. He ducked his head and sought a corner to stand in, as far away from them as was possible.

Next, he looked out for Nanahara himself. The stage was empty, save for a microphone stand and a guitar that Kazuo recognised as belonging to Kaoru Watanabe, with whom Nanahara had worked to develop some kind of mutual artistic respect over the months. He guessed that Watanabe was allowing Nanahara use of their guitar by way of wishing him luck for his first performance.

He'd been talking about it for weeks - first, with fervent excitement; then, when he found out that twenty-five of his classmates were coming to watch, with the beginnings of anxiety; and in the four or five days leading up to the event, his foreboding had given way to all-out panic, punctuated with alarming regularity by stress-fuelled bouts of being desperately horny, and pestering Kazuo for a more physical release.

Kazuo, for the most part, was more than happy to oblige him.

As Kazuo tried to peer over the multitude of heads to see if he could find him, he brought up their last conversation in his mind. Individual words and accusations flew to the forefront, and his stomach curdled.

He lashed out. It was what humans did, and had always done: with self-preservation a priority, it made evolutionary _sense _to reject that which compromises one's independence.

But then, he thought as he spotted him hanging back around the side of the stage, an animal such as him was nothing without a juxtaposition. He needed something - _anything _- to make him remember to take care of himself. Until Nanahara, he had relied on his family - mainly Mitsuru - to tactfully and fearfully point out that he should probably get some sleep, and hadn't it been three days since he last ate? Kazuo's indifference would kill him, were he left to his own devices.

And had he not read somewhere that humans were a desperately social species? Could it be that the masses had, in fact, got it right where Kazuo had got it very wrong?

He was going to lose him, he realised as he watched Shuya walk the steps to the stage and take his place, spotlighted in the middle.

He did not want to lose him.

Kazuo pressed his knuckles to his mouth. Unnoticed in the dark amid the quiet hum of anticipation, he whined quietly to himself.

Kazuo did not see Shuya shaking like a leaf. Yoshitoki, however, from his place at the front, did; he led a riotous chant, _Na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-hara! _that he had ingeniously invented the night before, and in the midst of the chaos, he gave his best friend a double thumbs-up.

Shuya returned it, and grinned sheepishly at the room full of people singing his name to the the Batman theme as his eyes scanned the dark crowd, searching without hope for the one who had nudged him into signing up to perform.

Kazuo saw him look for him, and instinctively retreated further into the shadows before catching himself. His feelings mixed and his uncertainty at an all-time high, something told him that it would be good for Nanahara to know that he was there. Without taking his eyes off of him, grasping the neck of the guitar and looking out into the audience, Kazuo took his phone from his pocket and, like so many others around him, illuminated his face with its light.

Shuya found him immediately. He cocked his head to one side, as if to say, _Really? _and Kazuo nodded, though he was not sure what he was agreeing to. It didn't matter, anyway. The smile on Shuya's lips broadened until it must have hurt, and by the time his classmates at the front had begun to turn to see what had pleased the Wild Seven so, Kazuo had stuffed his phone back into his pocket and he disappeared into the dark.

Shinji frowned. He caught Yoshitoki's eye, and drew the letter K in the air with his finger, followed by a question mark.

Yoshitoki shrugged. 'Probably.'

He had to shout to be heard over the cacophony that surrounded them. Clapping accompanied the chanting, which grew in both volume and tempo to a ridiculous degree, and while his ears began to hurt, Shuya ignored it all.

He was here.

With a glance over to the darkened corner where he knew Kazuo to be, he adjusted the microphone to his height and slipped the guitar strap over his head. If possible, the noise rose further; his friends and classmates roared their support, and those who always came cheered for a familiar face, and those who just decided to drop by were quickly caught up in the hysteria. Had he not known that Kazuo was there, silently spectating as he always did, Shuya suspected that the whole experience would have overwhelmed him. Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself - this was, after all, only his first time - but already he greatly appreciated the anchorage that Kazuo gave when he was likely to lose his head, even if he did not intend to provide anything at all.

He raised both hands; the noise died down to a silence indicative of an audience held in rapture. Shuya smiled his most charming, handsome smile, and most of the room sighed in longing.

Kazuo rolled his eyes. None of _them _had seen him practicing that very smile in front of the mirror. _They _hadn't been asked to quantify exactly how many teeth on show was enough to look sincere, but not so many as to be sinister.

He said something. Kazuo wasn't listening - he was, instead, fixated on the way his lips moved, and on his fingers flexing unconsciously around the neck of the guitar, and on his eyes that never strayed far from Kazuo's corner, despite his addressing the whole room.

Someone towards the front - Mimura, probably - heckled loudly, and the room erupted into laughter, Nanahara included. Kazuo wondered what they were laughing about, but he was immediately distracted by a glint of light reflecting off of his teeth.

'I guess I am going on a bit,' Shuya admitted, grinning broadly.

'Damn right! Get on with it, Elvis.'

His classmates giggled, and the atmosphere in the room shifted; as he gently picked away at the strings, pulling his audience into his song with confident assurance that made his friends proud, the atmosphere shifted further, filling the space with a velvety comfort that, just for a minute, put the world at ease. He opened his mouth and sang.

Twenty-seven minutes, four covers and one original song, one mistake and some Shinji-centered banter later, he said, "Thank you," and bowed gratefully to the applause and appreciation that was all his.

Before his classmates had the chance to wander and risk finding him, Kazuo snuck out through the bar and waited patiently, hidden in the shadows as it began to rain.

People poured out in a steady trickle. Most of the people from school left in twos and threes, having only gone along for Nanahara's set, though when Nanahara himself came out forty minutes later, flanked by his friends, Kazuo guessed that there was still a significant audience left inside for the subsequent acts.

He stepped out of the shadows.

'Nanahara,' he called. 'Wait.'

The three of them - Nanahara, Kuninobu and Sugimura - turned. (Hiroki winced. Having walked in on the two of them in the music room the day before, accidentally demolishing the barricade they'd put against the door as easily as if it hadn't been there at all, it was unsurprising.)

Shuya's mouth set into a line. He told them to go on ahead.

'Will you be alright?'

'Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow.'

They congratulated him again and left, bickering over control of the one umbrella they had between them.

Kazuo took a deep breath, hoped that Nanahara didn't plan on being difficult, and held out his hand to him.

'Walk with me,' he said.

Shuya folded his arms. Kazuo sighed, disappointed.

'Please?' he tried.

Shuya frowned harder. Kazuo wondered when that had happened - after all, having just got off stage after an objectively successful performance, it made sense for at least _some _of Nanahara's elation to have remained.

Eventually it dawned on him that Nanahara's foul mood was because of him.

He walked towards him, and Nanahara stepped back. Kazuo stopped.

'Please,' he said again. 'Will you walk with me?'

Shuya couldn't maintain it. He unfolded his arms and nodded shortly.

'Then walk,' he said.

He walked. Shuya followed. Kazuo slowed until they were side by side; Shuya snorted, and took longer steps.

Kazuo stopped. 'Nanahara, wait.'

He kept walking. 'Why? What's in it for me?'

'I feel I deserve a chance to explain.'

'Explain what?'

Aware that Nanahara was rapidly moving out of earshot, and unwilling to be caught hollering down the street, he ran to catch up.

'Earlier. I shouldn't have behaved in that way.'

'In what way?'

'Nanahara, please.'

'Please _what?'_

'You're - eh - I believe the appropriate phrase is "playing dumb".'

Shuya stopped. Kazuo turned, and ducked to avoid a heavy, well-aimed punch.

Adrenaline coursing through his body, he remained crouched and, probably for the first time, found himself looking _up _at Shuya Nanahara.

Shuya bared his teeth.

'Don't you _dare,' _he snarled, 'tell me that I am _playing dumb_, when you pretend to be so damn _complicated.'_

That stung.

'"Pretend"?'

Shuya could have swung at him again. Instead he glowered, the fury in his system sparking almost visibly underneath his skin.

'You like me, and then you don't give a damn. You're happy to fuck me, but you won't let me be anything more.'

Kazuo imagined himself to be a wall, at which Nanahara was chipping away into nothing. He tried to regulate his breathing and frowned against the onslaught.

Shuya began to pace.

'You _promise _you'll be with me for my first real show, and then you _promise _to let me down - and then,' he laughed, 'get this - you _change your mind again_, and you let me find you in your corner and you piss me off and put me at ease, and _then _I'm even _more _pissed off because you're only able to get under my skin like this because I'm _letting _you-'

'There you have it.'

'What?'

Kazuo exhaled shakily. 'You've got it. You've got it spot on, Nanahara.'

_'What?'_

He shook his head and didn't speak.

Nanahara admitted that he was getting under his skin, and in the same sentence, may as well have said _"And it's a pain in the ass that you are, because you're messing my head around and turning my brain into mulch."_

Kazuo kneaded his eyes, agitated.

They felt exactly the same, and yet Nanahara wouldn't understand. Kazuo would try to tell him of how compromised he was, and yet by telling him, he would be compromised further. Nanahara did not _need _to understand him. It was none of his business how complicated or unreadable or changeable Kazuo could be. He _knew _what he was getting into; he knew that Kazuo was not a man of sentiment, and he knew he would be used. That Kazuo had been offering himself by way of dual exploitation seemed to have gone unobserved.

There was something else. Nanahara had the habit - the most infuriating habit - of taking a situation and moulding it around himself. So, Kazuo changed his mind about watching him perform. How would he have been if Kazuo had been unable to go, instead of unwilling? Would he have sung out of tune, or dropped the guitar, or performed to an audience any less appreciative than that which he did just earlier that evening?

Kazuo began to suspect that he was losing his mind, and he resented, feared and idolised Nanahara even more.

He opened his mouth, unsure of what was going to come out.

'I need you to not think that I do not care, Nanahara,' he said.

Shuya wrinkled his forehead. 'Which means what, exactly?'

'It means-' He broke off and ducked his head. 'It's complicated,' he muttered.

With an impatient huff, Shuya began to walk again.

'I'm really, really tired of _complicated,'_ he said through gritted teeth as Kazuo hurried alongside him. 'Can you answer _yes _or _no? _Is that manageable?'

Kazuo bit his tongue against a toxic retort. 'Yes,' he said. 'I can manage that.'

'Good.'

They walked in silence. Kazuo wondered whether Nanahara just intended to let him stew after asserting his authority when he spoke again.

'Do you care about me?'

Kazuo winced.

'Y-'

'Don't lie to me.'

_'Yes.' _He hesitated, affected by the intensity with which Nanahara glared at him. 'I mean, may- um-' He coughed. 'I do. I promise-'

'I don't want you to promise me anything.'

'But-' Kazuo tried to grasp onto Nanahara's fingers, but he pulled them from his grasp. 'I _do _care, Nanahara. You must believe me.'

Shuya kicked a loose bit of gravel moodily. Drops of rain flew through the air alongside the hard chips of stone.

'Whatever,' he said, sullen. 'It was stupid of me to think you would.'

'Nanahara,' interrupted Kazuo. 'Wait-'

He ploughed on, his steps growing faster, more angered. 'Anyone would've thought that I'd have learned my lesson by now.'

Kazuo struggled to keep up with him. 'Nanahara, stop-'

'I mean-' Several feet ahead of Kazuo, he broke rhythm to viciously kick an empty Coke can across the road. 'It's a wonder you even put _up _with me-'

'Shuya.'

He stopped. Kazuo could almost see his brain turning, figuring out if he had heard correctly.

Kazuo rubbed a hand wearily over his eyes, and for the thousandth time since the beginning of whatever was between them, he regretted his own shortcomings - the likes of which he had not been aware, until Shuya Nanahara turned up with his damned _feelings _and his reproachful glances and those stupid, big eyes.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

'Shuya,' he said again, quietly. 'Please.'

It was fascinating, he thought, that someone could contrive to be expressive even when their face was hidden. He watched Shuya's head, silhouetted in the darkness against the grubby lampposts and the faint backdrop of the rain that fell, lightly enough to leave his skin damp and cold and annoyingly in need of the all-consuming warmth that always radiated from Nanahara like a furnace. He wrapped his arms around his torso and shivered.

Shuya turned. In his face, the anger had gone, to be replaced by a kind of resignation that wounded deeper than his fury.

'You lied to me,' he said.

Kazuo didn't answer. Shuya stood his ground, and still Kazuo did not speak. How could he? He had no answer. Were it not for the dregs of his pride keeping his neck firmly in place, he would have hung his head. Instead, he remained impassive and riddled with guilt.

Shuya sighed. 'For God's sake, Kazuo.' He sniffed. 'You don't have to lie to me to get me to suck your dick.'

Kazuo swallowed. 'I know. I am sorry.'

'I'd suck your dick all the time if my mouth didn't get tired.'

'Yes. I'm sorry.'

'All the damn time. It's weird, I never thought _I'd _like doing it-'

'Please stop.'

Shuya closed his mouth. The babbling ceased. He blushed. 'For what it's worth, I'm not great at talking about feelings either.'

Kazuo dismissed it. 'It doesn't matter. You don't need to be able to articulate what you feel.' He thought for a moment. 'You are quite proficient in the _feeling _department anyhow.'

'Better than you,' said Shuya, somewhat churlishly.

Kazuo blinked. 'Yes,' he admitted, surprised by how natural it felt to acknowledge where he came second. 'Better than me.'

Shuya raised a hand as if to brush his cheek, but changed his mind and scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.

'You're working on that, right?' he asked, avoiding Kazuo's gaze.

'Working on what?'

'Y'know.' He shuffled. 'Feeling. Articulating.'

'Which?'

He scratched his neck again to ease the prickling. 'Either. Both.'

Kazuo watched Shuya steadily until he stopped looking down at his feet long enough to meet his eye again.

He took a deep breath. Thoughts of _social creatures _and _risk of losing him _and _tell him the damn truth _briefly flitted through his head, and he cleared his throat, standing a bit straighter. He spared a thought for the Kazuo who was once uncompromised and comfortable in his solidarity to himself, and he abandoned him like an old skin.

'Nanahara?'

'Yeah?'

'I only want to say this once.'

'I'm listening.'

'I like you.'

Shuya exhaled, and thought he was on the verge of either weeping or soaring or punching him again.

'Bear in mind,' Kazuo added, 'that the extent of my affection is more-or-less just that.'

Silence.

Shuya struggled. 'What?'

Kazuo sighed. 'I like you. I will not feel more.'

He expected Shuya to crumble. He expected him to cry. He did not expect him to argue.

His answer was immediate: 'How do you know?'

Kazuo blinked. 'How do I know - what? That I will never feel more than mild affection for you?'

Through the surge of hope and despair that lifted his heart to lodge in his throat, Shuya nodded. 'A year ago, I bet you never thought you'd be here now. With me.' He paused. '_Liking_ me. Think about that?'

Kazuo frowned. 'No, I had not,' he said honestly.

The look on Shuya's face said, quite clearly, _There you are, then._

Kazuo frowned harder. 'I sincerely hope you are not getting your hopes up.'

Shuya laughed. Actually laughed. For a brief moment, Kazuo was convinced that it wasn't sarcastic, and he was tempted to join in - but then he realised.

Shuya seemed to fix him in place with his mournful, bitter glare. 'I'm not stupid,' he said, his neutrality forced. 'My hopes have hit rock bottom.'

With that, he turned and walked away, and Kazuo was left wondering why, once again, he was chasing after the infuriating, volatile, sulky, _maddening _man before him.

It wasn't meant to be like this. That didn't stop him from grasping him by the shoulder and forcing him against the nearest vertical structure and kissing him in a frustrated fit of repressed anger and some other, enigmatic, warming feeling he couldn't name.

He pulled away, held tightly onto Shuya's lapels, and fixed him with his most serious glower.

'Listen,' he said. 'Listen, and don't walk away from me.'

Internally, Shuya smiled.

He swallowed, and nodded. Kazuo let go of him and retreated several steps until his back was against the wall of the nearest building. Shuya watched him clench and unclench his fists.

Kazuo cleared his throat.

'I admit, that this-' he gestured to the space between them, 'has been somewhat unexpected. No, I did not foresee our association - and yet, I do not resent it for existing. I have learned a lot from you, Nanahara.'

'It's "Shuya".'

Kazuo closed his eyes.

'You are being petulant.'

'I'd like you to call me "Shuya".'

'You're interrupting.'

'Go on, then. You've learned a lot from me - how?'

His gaze roved to a broken streetlamp on the opposite side of the dim street. He didn't answer.

Shuya pressed. 'You learned the Stairway solo from me, I'll give you that.'

Silence.

'Maybe you learned - oh, wait!'

Kazuo looked up.

'I taught you how to ride a bike. But,' he added, 'I still think it's weird that anyone could get to sixteen and still not know how to.'

Kazuo flinched.

'It had never been necessary,' he muttered. Shuya fixed him with a look.

'You're stalling,' he said evenly. 'You sent me away, and yet you've followed me here. Just say what you want to say.'

Kazuo swallowed, and, as they said, bit the proverbial bullet. (He had never understood that phrase.)

'From you, I learned to feel.'

Shuya could have snorted. '_Feel. _Hardly. You've said that you _like _me. Let's not go crazy.'

'Nana- _Shuya,' _said Kazuo, the warning in his voice not going unheeded. 'Don't underestimate the significance of my _liking _you.'

The smile faded from Shuya's lips.

Having spent so much time in Kazuo's company, he had begun to take the fleeting instances of genuine emotion - be it in the voluntary handholding as they watched Western films together, or in the easiness of their postcoital conversation - for granted. But now that he thought about it - really thought - had not his prominent impression of Kazuo previously been one of boredom? Indifference? Callousness? Shuya took in the expression of mild hurt on his face and wondered when he'd stopped being a cold, flat shell.

It took a while to sink in.

His breath caught. His eyes widened.

'Oh.'

Kazuo stared resolutely at the ground.

'For some... inconceivable reason, I like you,' he said quietly, 'where I liked nothing and no one.' He closed his eyes, feeling his heart stretch and he didn't enjoy it at all. 'Don't undermine that. Please.'

He heard Shuya taking slow steps towards him.

'Do you want the truth?' he asked. His voice cracked on the last word.

'Of course.'

He swallowed again. 'The truth is - I don't know if I will ever love you.'

He heard him stop, just before him.

'I don't know if I will ever like you more than I do now - but I-' His voice broke. He took a minute to slow his breathing, and opened his eyes.

'I know that I like you more than I did yesterday. And I liked you more yesterday than I did the day before.'

Shuya's hand reached to cup his cheek. Kazuo fought not to jerk his head away.

'This - this _progression _is novel. Tomorrow, I may like you even more - but I _don't know.' _He met Shuya's eyes with difficulty. 'The uncertainty that surrounds my feelings for you makes me uncomfortable.'

He watched as the guilt settled in Shuya's expression. The hand on his cheek went to drop back down to Shuya's side, but he quickly raised a restraining hand to keep it there.

'Don't leave,' he said instinctively.

Shuya slid his other arm around his back, and brought him into his embrace.

'I won't,' he said. 'I promise.'

'I don't want to like you.'

'I know you don't.'

'You have compromised me.'

'Yes.'

'I should hate you.'

'You should.'

'I like you.'

Shuya hugged him tighter. His unreasonable bundle of contradictions. Kazuo nuzzled into his neck, and was consumed by the curious sensation of returning home after a long time spent away.

'I want to love you,' he said, muffled. 'I truly, honestly do.'

'Then, why can't you?'

Kazuo mumbled into Shuya's skin.

'What was that?'

He mumbled again.

Shuya lifted him by the chin to face him.

'It isn't easy for me.'

Kazuo felt raw.

No - not raw.

He imagined that, if his skin were to be flayed from his body, the feeling would not be too dissimilar. He was exposed. Exposed and vulnerable. He ached, he hurt, he wanted it to be over, and yet Shuya - stupid, irritating Shuya - was both the salt in his wounds and the balm to make it better. He held onto him, pride long gone, and begged him again not to leave.

'Where would I go?' he asked incredulously. 'I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.'

Kazuo shivered. Shuya stood on his tiptoes to kiss his rain-spattered forehead before semi-detaching himself from his hold.

One arm firmly around his waist, he turned to Kazuo and suggested they go home.

They walked in silence.

As they approached Kazuo's innocuous little home on the dilapidated, abandoned street, Shuya let go of his waist and pulled him back to face him.

'I can't stay,' he said regretfully. 'I promised Ms Ryoko I'd babysit.'

Kazuo cleared his throat shortly. 'Where is she, tonight?' he asked, his voice unnaturally deep and unnaturally forced. Shuya didn't question it.

'On a date,' he said. 'Some guy she met in the park. Helped her find her keys.'

'I see.'

'He seems alright.'

'Good.'

The silence that followed seemed to not know whether to be awkward or not.

Eventually, Kazuo cleared his throat.

'I am going inside now,' he announced, as though his heart was not aching with the recency of its undoing. 'You did well, earlier. Congratulations.'

'Thank you.'

This time, the silence was awkward.

'Goodnight,' said Kazuo, and with a short nod, he turned and walked to the door before swiftly unlocking it.

Shuya hadn't even seen him go for his key. Sometimes he wondered - really wondered - if Kazuo genuinely transcended the realms of real life and all its dull, human mediocrity. Fumbling for one's keys was for normal people, not Kazuo.

With one foot in the door, Shuya called him.

He turned without moving his body.

'Yes?'

Shuya smiled.

'For what it's worth,' he said, 'I love you.' He paused. 'Or, at least, I think I do.'

Kazuo struggled with knowing how to answer. A part of him - a sizeable part of him - was inclined towards slinging him over his shoulder and bodily throwing him onto the nearest flat surface, where he could ravish him until the early and not-so early hours of the morning by way of telling Nanahara - irritating, brilliant Nanahara - what was happening inside of him that he couldn't put into words.

Another part of him wanted to say it back, but he knew it would be a lie.

It wouldn't _not _be the truth, but he thought it best not to say it anyway. Instead, he nodded.

'Yes,' he said, immediately regretting it. 'Okay.'

Shuya didn't seem to mind. He smiled wider.

'I say, "I think" because - well, I think I do.'

'Uh-huh.'

'And if I don't love you now, then I'll love you tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or maybe the day after that. But even if I don't love you now, it feels like I do. One day, I'll love you properly. I promise.'

It was ineloquent and, in terms of the poetic use of romantic language, left a lot to be desired - but Kazuo's breath hitched all the same. He swallowed - several times - and pulled up the corners of his lips where he just wanted to collapse.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Shuya quickly crossed the street to meet him at his door, and pressed a finger to his mouth.

'Don't,' he said, and he kissed him.

Kazuo watched him turn and leave back the way he came, watched the raindrops shimmer in his hair, watched him wave, and with a feeling of having a body part torn away from him, he stepped inside the house when he was called again.

'Kazuo?'

The call was not especially loud, but clear enough for him to hear. He leaned out, and for a minute struggled to see him, standing between one flickering streetlight and another that had been long punched in altogether.

'Yes?' he asked.

Shuya grinned widely, his lopsided, toothy grin, and laughed once. 'I love you.'

Kazuo smiled, too small for Shuya to see.

'Me too, Nanahara,' said Kazuo. 'Go home, now.'

* * *

Guess what?  
The end!  
I really, really hope you've all enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Please let me know if there's anything you particularly liked/hated, and I'll bear it in mind for my next Kazuya (made that one up myself i did) lovey dovey story.  
You're the best ^^ Thank you (and well done) for sticking with it! Have some e-love to go with your 50k fic.  
Srsly tho. Thanks, guys.


	14. Epilogue: Again, Forever

Time had been kind to them both. When asked about the quality and longevity of their life_, _that was all they would say.

From the outside, the two of them were probably curiously impenetrable. For them, it was all they needed. Despite Kazuo's continued attempt at independence, and despite Shuya's unreasonable pining for a family, and despite the differences that the years had accentuated and then resolved into insignificance, that _time had been kind to them_ was among the only things they could agree on.

That, and that dogs made better pets than cats. That Europe was more pleasant to tour than America. That money earned felt better than money cheated. That it only took two to make a life as three-dimensional and _real _as it had any right to be.

Another source of solidity - their gravity, the roots that kept them firmly grounded to the Earth and to one another - was the almost-military reliability of their routines. The dogwalking, every morning. The alternating chef duties. The minimum of a half-hour spent reading in bed before they slept. The dialogue, so consistent it could have been scripted, as they turned out the light:

'Kazuo?'

'Hmm?'

'I love you.'

'I was aware.'

'Do you love me?'

Kazuo shifted and sighed. 'No.'

Shuya kissed his forehead and smiled, as he had kissed and smiled for many thousands of nights before.

'Liar,' he said, again.

**Fin.**


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